


Made to Be

by Laeviss



Series: Wranduin Week 2020 [2]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Adventure, Aristocracy, Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, Courtship, Dancing, Fairy Tale Elements, Forbidden Love, Implied Underage Sex, M/M, Mildly Corrupt Wrathion, Minor Character Death, Romance, Trans Male Character, Wranduin Week 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:33:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 59,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26361211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: The Black Dragonflight hatches a plan to place one of their own on the throne of Stormwind, but the suitor they create has a mind of his own, and being near Anduin helps him see his family for what they really are.
Relationships: Taelia Fordragon/Tess Greymane (Secondary), Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn
Series: Wranduin Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914982
Comments: 84
Kudos: 107





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> One character in this story misgenders and deadnames Wrathion. It is framed in a negative light and the people around her keep correcting her, but if this is something that makes you uncomfortable, you might want to proceed with caution.
> 
> Also minor mention of forced (dragon) breeding.

Anduin lifted his eyes and stared into the face of a woman at least ten years his senior. Her straight black hair hung on either side of lips pursed in a line, and black brows that arched, slightly, as he inclined his head. 

“Greetings,” he mumbled, his pulse rushing in his ears.

“Tess Greymane, your Majesty,” she shot back, like a soldier standing at attention. Looking past his head, she added, with a touch of venom in her voice, “House Greymane.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” He chuckled, once, then curled and uncurled his fingers in front of him. His gaze strayed to her gray wool bodice lined with silver. He rolled back his shoulders, trying to recall what, exactly, men were supposed to find appealing about women, mentally thumbing through the romances he had devoured as a child. 

“Your dress looks lovely,” he tried, furrowing his brow. “It reminds me of winter. I mean, in a good way, of course!” The interjection tumbled from his tongue. His heart leapt, and when her brows arched and her lips tugged into a line, heat shot up his neck and claimed his cheeks. 

He looked to the right of her shiny black locks, to the marble pillar rising behind her. His swallow was audible; so, too, was the rise and fall of his breath. 

She straightened, rolling one shoulder, then the other, before grabbing her overskirt and shifting it to the side. Black leather riding boots peeked out from beneath the hem. “Well, your Majesty,” she replied, as coolly as one might set a meeting reminder. “My kingdom lies in the north, as I’m sure you know.”

“I—yes, of cou—”

A slender, gloved hand wrapped around his upper arm and tugged him a few steps back. Long nails dug into his skin through his white silk tunic, and when he gasped, he tasted the tang of perfume on the tip of his tongue. He turned. His brows rose. The hand in the crook of his elbow didn’t relent even when he politely twisted his shoulder away. 

“Hello.” His stomach churned. He swallowed and readied himself to say more, but the woman jumped in, blonde curls bouncing and blue-lined eyes a bit too wide. “Your Majesty is just as handsome as I remember. Please, come here. I’d love to make your acquaintance.”

Anduin’s eyes darted back to Tess. Her joyless lips remained unmoved, but he could have sworn he caught a sympathetic glint flashing through her deep brown eyes. 

He didn’t have time to reflect on it. The girl at his arm yanked him across the marble floor and to a cluster of guards beneath a red and white banner. ‘House Lescovar,’ Anduin silently reminded himself as he bowed and mumbled an awkward greeting: “Amelie Lescovar, how nice to finally meet you.”

His throat tightened, his stomach roiling against the second whiff he caught of her floral perfume. Sweat clung to the nape of his neck, and he counted the moments until he could slip away to make another acquaintance. Every eye in the queue stretching down his hall bored into him; he had to shift and stagger to keep his knees from locking. 

He shot a glance towards the throne room, where Bolvar waited with his jaw set in a solemn line. Beside him, Lady Katrana Prestor folded her arms. Her long black nails tapped against her sleeve, and her green eyes flashed as they darted from girl to girl. Anduin remembered the urgency in her voice when she mentioned her niece would be among the suitresses attending the ball: the way she had leaned over his chair, her hair swishing about his face as she whispered and drummed her fingers against his shoulder…

Another hand on his arm snapped him back to the moment. He looked to his left and found the freckled face of one Ellie Ellerian, his cheerful second cousin. Exhaling, and flashing a grateful smile, he let her lead him away from House Lescovar and over to greet the representatives from his late mother’s family. The moment of reprieve they offered lasted mere moments, however, before two identical pale faces appeared at his side and urged him to step under the Ebonlocke heraldry. 

The rest of the procession proved to be no less brutal. After being wrenched from party to party, dizziness set in, and the blue and green flourish of gowns churned around him like the sea. A suggestive wink and offer to “meet later at the door of his quarters” sent a wave of nausea surging over him, leaving his lips numb in its wake. He could only blink and shuffle off to another woman, with another expectant look or a hopefulness he’d never be able to satisfy. 

Drained of all warmth and anything approaching cheerfulness, he wandered down his hall to a tall girl with cropped, dark hair. He bowed. She responded by holding out a calloused hand and exclaiming, in a thick Kul Tiran accent, “My Lord!” Followed by an even hastier correction, “I mean, my king! Your Majesty!”

He looked up. The girl’s broad shoulders and sun-tanned cheeks came into focus, and he blinked, furrowed his brow, and managed to answer: “Hello.” 

He reached out to take her hand, but rather than curling her fingers around his thumb, she grasped it and gave it a shake that shot up to the top of his arm. “Taelia Fordragon, sir!” 

“Oh!” His eyes flew open. Glancing back up the ramp, he found Bolvar, watching, a sheepish smile twitching beneath one corner of his mustache. Anduin stood up straighter. His blond bangs rustled about his crown as he nodded and turned back to her. “Your father is my greatest advisor. It’s an honor to have you in our city.”

“It’s an honor to be here, my lord,” she replied. Her voice jumped a few notes at the end, but this time she didn’t correct her error. “It’s a fair bit different than Boralus, I have to say. For one thing, the Stormwind style runs a bit tighter.”

His eyes traveled to her broad shoulders, and to the swell of her upper arms straining the green batiste. He chuckled and clenched his own slender wrists behind his back. “Well, I hope you find something more comfortable for the dance.”

“I’m sure I will, my lord. I’m looking forward to it, for sure. So many girls, from all over the Eastern Kingdoms. I can’t wait to meet them all.” 

“I trust you will.” He exhaled, the tension between his shoulder blades starting to unfurl. He followed her gaze up the line, to where Lady Ridgewell and her daughter stared back at them over identical lace fans. Their beady eyes examined him from his silk shoes to his crown. He took a step back and cleared his throat. “Until then, I hope you enjoy your stay, Lady Taelia.”

“And you, too, my lord,” she said, interrupting herself with a chuckle. “I mean, I hope you have a nice day.”

“Thank you, Taelia.” He turned and stepped around another pillar to the last party waiting in the procession. 

The first person he noticed was a woman: at least a foot taller than him, with her hair knotted in a bun at the top of her head. To her right stood another, slightly shorter, but with a stare no less fiery. Both wore plain, gray leather armor with no heraldic mark or flourish. The thick smell of cologne lingered in the surrounding air. Anduin glanced between them, then down to a white silk turban adorned with all the jewels and flairs the attendants surrounding it lacked.

Anduin’s gaze dropped, and his eyes shot open. Standing between the two women, arms crossed, and lips set in a pensive line, was…a boy. His eyes flashed as he tilted his goateed chin and regarded the king with a grin. “Ah, yes, if it isn’t his Majesty himself, King of Stormwind, come to bestow his blessings upon us!”

His tone was smooth, but there was something about the lilt in his voice that made Anduin bristle. His stomach clenched. His jaw fell open. It took a few moments, and a few quick breaths, before he could force a sound out from his throat. “And you are—?”

“Lord Wrathion Prestor, son of Lady Nyxondra and Lord Fahrad, also, naturally, of House Prestor.”

_‘Prestor!’_ He thought with a start. His forehead creased beneath his crown as he thought back to Lady Katrana’s words: _“My dear niece will be arriving from Hillsbrad Foothills. Please, treat her kindly and show her your best hospitality. As I understand, she is quite nervous, never having been to the city…”_

His gaze moved from the boy’s sharp teeth to the tips of his pointed purple boots. By the time he returned to his eyes, he was smirking, and his thick brows had risen to the curved rim of his turban. Anduin choked. Surely this had to be a mistake. 

When he managed to reply, his voice was hoarse, and more tentative than he had intended. “Wrathion, you say? That’s a unique name.”

“Thank you. I chose it myself, in fact.” 

“Oh!” Anduin gasped. Heat returned to the nape of his neck, then crawled to the tips of his ears. “I see.” He added and averted his gaze to the guards. “Your attendants are, ah, formidable.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” the boy, Wrathion, sounded bored, arching his back and leaning against the wall. He uncrossed his arms and examined his pointed gold nails. “I chose them myself, as well. I’m not sure dear Auntie will approve, but she will allow me this one personal comfort, even if it’s the last I see while I’m under her watch.”

Anduin’s mouth went dry, and he cleared his throat. It was the kind of remark he wasn’t sure he could agree with, especially about his own advisor. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he waited. The boy peered at him from beneath his turban and smirked, flexing, then extending his hand. 

“Ah, yes, I almost forgot. Please, your Majesty, allow me.”

Reaching out, Anduin tucked his hand under his fingers. With a quick flick of his wrist, Wrathion slid from his grasp and pressed his nails into Anduin’s palm. The young king paled. Wrathion’s bracelets jingled as he lifted his now-limp forearm and brought his knuckles to the swell of his bottom lip. Lowering his gaze, he kissed. Anduin trembled at the heat of his breath against his bare skin. His shoulders shot up to his jaw.

When Wrathion withdrew, Anduin’s arm swung back, heavy by his side. His blush returned, staining his cheeks deep red. Wrathion’s eyes darted to it, but then, as quickly as he had looked, he turned his head to stare past his left ear. Re-crossing his arms, he smirked and murmured under his breath:

“I will see you at the ball, I suppose, your Majesty.”

“Yes—ah, I suppose you will.”

* * *

Anduin stumbled over a hoop skirt in his haste to put some distance between himself and the three Vanyst sisters. Turning, and gasping out a hasty apology that vanished under the swell of violins, he clutched the sides of his blue-and-gold embroidered overcoat and tugged it over his matching vest. Sweat prickled beneath his hair. Every breath brought with it a whiff of floral perfume and wine sloshed over glasses across the dance floor.

Even though it was barely spring, hot air pressed upon him from all sides. Clenching his jaw and tucking his hands in his coat pockets, he darted between dancing couples. He had to strain up on his toes to see above the shoulders of the men and women who passed. 

Ducking around a column, he whirled on his heels and exhaled, digging his shoulder blades into the cool stone. The violins let up for a pause, and as the musicians ruffled through their papers; a low hum pervaded the room. Anduin couldn’t make out their whispers, but he suspected some were asking after him. His stomach twisted and his nose wrinkled as he squeezed closed his eyes. 

To his left, something ‘wsh’ed, then a pair of heels clicked across the floor. Forcing open his eyes, he turned his head; a magenta-clad arm slipped around the column and a set of familiar black nails splayed out across the white stone. 

Katrana dipped her head around the corner and murmured, her breath hot against Anduin’s ear, “Dear boy, are you not enjoying the party?” 

‘No!’ He wanted to exclaim, but he settled for the more subdued: “Sorry, Lady Katrana, I’m just feeling…overwhelmed.”

“I can imagine. My poor dear. Sixteen is such a young age to be put through this.” With a frown, she stepped in front of him, but didn’t withdraw her hand from beside his head. His eyes traveled up her velvet gown to her face framed by waves of black hair. She had a gold diadem perched atop them, bringing out the gold powder lining her eyes. 

She looked every bit the queen in his childhood storybooks, but when he met her gaze, his stomach jolted. His clammy fingers curled into his palms at his sides. A faint whisper hummed in his ears, and this time he was certain it wasn’t secrets murmured on the dance floor that quivered in the air. 

Clearing his throat, he looked up, and offered a smile that ached at the corners of his mouth. “It’s just more people than I’m used to seeing in the Keep, is all. Or rather, more people than I’m used to wanting my attention. I guess my days of sitting by the window eating cheese are over.” He chuckled. 

The woman before him pursed her lips. “Dear Anduin, you are the king, and in a few years, you will be fully emancipated. You will be able to do whatever you wish, whenever you wish. Highlord Fordragon and I only seek to prepare you for it.”

Her eyes flicked to Anduin’s open coat. Straightening, he fumbled to hook the buttons, lowering his gaze as he worked. When he looked up, she flashed a smile, but her cheeks stayed an unearthly white. 

“I know,” he exhaled, fighting the strain in his voice. “And I will be ready.”

“I’m sure you will. And, with any luck, you will have a wife to lean on in those early days, as your parents once did before their tragic passing.”

“I—guess.” Anduin’s heart clenched. He wasn’t sure if it was mention of his parents that tightened his jaw, or the thought of having a woman beside him, draping her arms around him, pressing her lips against his cheek, undressing and lying bare on his bed. He bit down on his trembling lip and strained up on his toes, finding an off-color stone on the wall to focus his gaze upon.

Katrana shifted to accommodate his change in posture, but continued in the same musical lilt, “I do hope our Rhalina didn’t trouble you.”

_‘Rhalina?’_ “Wrathion?” He guessed. 

Katrana spoke as if she hadn’t heard him, though a thin line appeared between her otherwise flawless brows. “Living where she does, I’m afraid she hasn’t had many opportunities to mingle with other nobles her age.”

“That’s quite all right—” Anduin lifted his hand. The quartet off to his right struck a new chord, starting in on a waltz.

Raising her voice, the lady went on. “I would have brought her to court a few years ago. Her father, my dear brother, is a tolerant man, but far too relaxed for my liking. Had we sent for her sooner, she would have known better than to—”

“Really, Lady Prestor, I didn’t mind. He’s very, ah…” The boy’s gold eyes and dark skin flashed before Anduin’s eyes, followed by the gentle cup of his hand beneath Anduin’s fingers. The brush of his full lower lip, the tickle of his goatee against his knuckles. The king sucked down a breath, pressing against the column, and willing the heat crawling up his neck to stop before it reached his face. He readjusted his crown with a shaky hand. 

“He seems like an interesting person. I’d like to speak to him again, honestly.”

“Oh.” The lady arched her brow. Her voice leapt, and she regarded him with a searching look. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Anduin insisted. “But I haven’t seen him, not since that meeting in the hall.”

Katrana heaved a sigh, leaning in as she lowered his voice, “I believe she is out on the balcony. At least, she was, the last time I saw her.”

“Well, it sounds like _he_ has the right idea,” Anduin smiled, lingering for a moment on the pronoun. Again, her forehead creased, but she said nothing, stepping back and tightening her lips. 

“Homesickness, I suspect. It’s so unlike Rhalina to balk from a crowd.” Katrana paused. Withdrawing her hand from the pillar, she rested her fingers, instead, against the curve of Anduin’s shoulder. She applied little pressure, but her sharp nails bit at his skin through his embroidered sleeve. A few strands of her black tresses swung free and tickled Anduin’s neck. 

He tensed. She whispered, “Would you be a dear boy and go to her? Maybe with your encouragement, we can bring her back to the ball. She has so much she can offer you…”

As if compelled by strings tugging at his forehead, Anduin bowed, his blond bangs swaying. “Of course, Lady Prestor,” he murmured. When her fingers released their talon-like hold on him, he took a step to the side, and, like a wave, the oppressive smell of flowers and sweat crashed over him. 

Nausea prickled at the back of his tongue. Swallowing and squeezing closed his eyes, he waited until the tinge of pain faded from the top of his arm, then took the plunge back into the crowd. 

The room spun, colors bleeding together as skirts swished about his calves. A couple to his right made a sudden turn, and he quickened his pace to avoid tripping them in their path. He passed beneath a beam of moonlight leaking in through the row of windows lining the opposite wall, then located the pair of open doors situated between them. A gust of fresh air drifted in from the veranda. 

Inhaling, the king lifted his head and followed its cool caress. He readjusted his crown, straightened the collar of his coat where Katrana had grasped it, and rolled his shoulders. The music around him swelled to a crescendo, forte violin chords ringing in his ears. Beneath their hum, he missed the click of advancing heels until they were upon him. A blue gown darted in front of him, blonde curls bobbing as Amelie Lescovar plunged into a bow. 

“My king,” she trilled. The waltz faded, leaving only her giggle to quiver in the small gap between them. “I have been looking everywhere for you! Loania said she saw you talking to Eva Vanyst over by the cheese table, but by the time I made it through the crowd you were gone. What pulled you away from the dance, your Majesty?”

“Ah, nothing.” His mind flickered to Katrana’s green eyes and the tang of her heady perfume. “I just didn’t feel much like dancing.”

“Is that so?” She leaned in. His painted brows furrowed as she studied his face. “And what about now, your Majesty? May I implore you, just once, for a dance?”

“I, uh, don’t think so. I’m very sorry.”

“But your Majesty!” she urged, frowning, and shooting a quick glance to the opposite corner. Following her gaze, Anduin found her father, Baron Aldous Lescovar, watching the exchange with cold, black eyes and a glare stained red with the flush of intoxication. He shivered. 

Amelie rested her lace-clad fingers against his arm. “Your Majesty, only one dance, and I will let you rest. It pains me to see you missing out on all the fun, especially at your own party.”

“That’s really…all right.” Mouth dry and throat tight, he struggled to form the words. The final sound stuck on the tip of his tongue, and he shook his head, looking to the side for a way around her hoop skirt. He shifted onto the balls of his feet; she tightened her grip on his sleeve. Suddenly, an arm draped over his shoulder and a goateed chin pressed against the back of his neck.

“Ah, there you are!” Wrathion drawled. Anduin’s eyes flew open. He tried to turn, but his knees buckled, and a flush crept up his collar where the boy’s hot breath had touched his skin. The young lord continued, undaunted, “I was beginning to think I had lost you in this oppressive crowd. They have just opened a bottle of your finest Alterac Whiskey. Please, follow me, before these nobles finish it off.”

“But his Majesty had just agreed to a dance with me,” Amelie interjected, before Anduin had time to reply. 

“No, I’m afraid not.” Wrathion shook his head, releasing his hold on Anduin’s shoulder to thread his hand, instead, through the crook of his elbow. 

It took the king a moment to react, but when he did, he clenched his forearm and hooked their arms firmly together. Exhaling, he willed the muscles in his face to loosen. A bead of sweat escaped from beneath his crown and rolled down his cheek; with every breath, the heat of Wrathion’s body pressing against his arm seemed to heighten. 

Working his gloved hand up to Amelie’s wrist, Wrathion flicked his fingers. The lady tensed, then, after a pause, recoiled. “The king has already agreed to share a drink with me, you see, and I believe we can both concede the king is a man of his word.”

“But I—”

Wrathion clicked the tip of his tongue against his upper teeth. “No, no, his Majesty is coming with me. Isn’t that right, your Majesty?”

Anduin nodded, once, dazed by the heat and noise pressing in on him. Wrathion grinned, and continued, “Good. Perhaps you can trouble him later, my dear. Perhaps a drink or two will make even a dance with you sound appealing.”

Amelie’s brows arched. Anduin paled, mumbling incoherently as the other boy turned him and steered him towards a table lined with sparkling glasses. When they breached the crowd, the young king sucked in a breath. He turned and found Wrathion, donning a black-and-gold tunic with his dark curls loose about his chin, leaning over and plucking a tumbler from the edge of the table. 

“Whiskey, really?” Anduin managed, the squeak in his voice drawing a few looks from the surrounding crowd. 

Wrathion shrugged, flicking his wrist with one hand while the other brought the glass to his lips. The liquid within rippled, casting flecks of amber light across his tunic. “There is champagne, as well, if you would prefer. You simply looked like a man in need of a drink. I was certain you were about to be sick down the front of that girl’s blue silk gown.”

Anduin bit his lip. His cheeks burned, and, without comment, he reached around a nobleman twice his size and snatched a glass of champagne from the table. Wrathion ‘hm’ed under his breath and moved to stand at his side. 

“Um, yes, Amelie is, well—” Anduin whispered as they walked along the wall to the balcony doors. They crossed the threshold and stepped out under the stars. Another cool breeze ruffled Anduin’s hair, soothing the sweat that had gathered between his scalp and the top of his crown. Tilting back, he breathed in the soft smell of jasmine, a marked contrast to the heavy perfumes clouding the air inside. 

“Amelie Lescovar, she’s very,” he looked around and lowered his voice. “Enthusiastic, I guess. I probably wouldn’t have gotten away for the rest of the night if you hadn’t shown up.”

“Lescovar?” Wrathion stepped to his right, then turned and leaned against the stone balustrade. He propped his elbow against the railing and took another swig of his whiskey. “Funny, I had always heard the Lescovars dressed in red. It’s their house color, yes?”

“Yes,” Anduin admitted, taking a step closer, so he could whisper, “But Amelie always wears blue.”

“Well, you know what they say, dear king. One should always dress for the job they want.”

Anduin tittered automatically, but when he looked into Wrathion’s face and the words he had uttered sunk in, his chuckle rose to a full-blown laugh. Flushing, he pressed his palm to his lips, and moved to lean over the rail at Wrathion’s side. 

The boy didn’t turn to face in the same direction, but the brush of his shoulder against Anduin’s sleeve tugged him back to the heat of their arms looped together. Suddenly grateful to be out of sight, Anduin reached up and toyed with his bangs. He looked down at the cherry tree in full bloom in the courtyard, watching as a gust of wind scattered petals across the walkway.

Under an arch, Tess Greymane sat rigid in her corset, her boots abandoned in a black leather pile nearby. She juggled a throwing knife between her fingers, as another girl leaned in and gasped something Anduin couldn’t make out.

Without seeing her face, he knew the second figure was Taelia Fordragon. He could tell by the way her gown strained to accommodate the broad muscles rippling across her upper back. Anduin watched as Tess reached out and slipped a finger under her chin. He smiled, the tension in his shoulders unwinding as he took a small sip of champagne. 

“Thank you, again, by the way.” He slid his thumb along the flute’s stem, then set it aside on the railing, folding his hands in front of him. 

“Of course, of course,” Wrathion murmured. He tossed back his drink, then placed the empty glass beside Anduin’s, craning his neck and following his gaze down to the girls below. He chuckled. “Well, well, I’m glad to see someone has hit it off, at least.” 

“What do you mean?” Anduin asked, trying to sound casual. Glancing to his side, he caught Wrathion smiling. Another soft breeze ruffled his curls. The king’s chest tightened, his pulse quickening in his ears. 

The lord shrugged, pressing against the rail, and wrapping his long fingers around it at either side of his torso. He explained, “It’s quite well known up north that Princess Greymane enjoys the company of women. No matter how many times her father drags her before one baron or another, it will never make his daughter any less gay.”

Anduin’s skin tingled from his back to his scalp. The word hung in the air before them. His tongue went limp, and his coat swayed with the rise and fall of his chest. Every detail of Wrathion’s body—from the way his bracelets rattled to the light of the moon playing upon his dark cheeks—came into focus. 

Tilting his shoulder, Wrathion swept his glass to the side, and murmured, “So, are you—?”

“What!” Anduin’s mouth flew open. The blood drained from his face. His knees buckled, and he dug his nails into the stone in front of him.

Wrathion arched a brow, flashing a toothy grin. “—Going to finish that?” 

“Oh.” Fighting to form the words, Anduin glanced at his glass, then shook his head so hard his crown slid down his forehead. “Oh, no, I don’t think so. You can have it if you’d like.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.” Wrathion’s voice was as smooth as the shiny black fabric lining his tunic. He extended his palm, carefully threading the flute stem between his second and third finger. He cupped it like a goblet, taking a sip, darting out his tongue to lick his lips. 

His gold bracelets ‘clnk’ed as he tilted back his head and tossed back another swig. Anduin watched, lacing his fingers together, and explaining, tentatively, “I would drink more, but I keep thinking about…well, I’m sure you remember what happened at my coronation.”

Wrathion lowered the glass in front of him, staring at him with blank eyes. Anduin closed his mouth, knitting his brows, and watching as Wrathion shuffled his wine from one hand to the other. Funny, now that he thought of it, no one close to Wrathion’s age had been standing beneath the black-and-gold Prestor banner that morning three years ago. ‘Well, Hillsbrad is far away,’ he reminded himself. ‘And Lady Katrana already said he was feeling out of his element.’

Willing the shock from his face, Anduin looked back down to the courtyard. Tess and Taelia had fled the walkway and now strolled side-by-side around the lake. He giggled. “Let’s just say I got nervous and downed a glass of champagne before speaking. It was a terrible idea. I don’t want a repeat performance.”

“You may not.” Wrathion smirked, leaning in. “But you must admit, it would give the nobles something to talk about beyond which of them wore their crown the highest or whose gloves clashed the most with their suit. In that respect, it might be a win!”

“Oh, I’m sure they’d love it.” Anduin frowned, but the way his mouth twitched at the corners betrayed his amusement. “Maybe I should trip, and they’d deem me too frail to continue their—”

“Your Majesty,” an attendant cut in from the door, bowing, and flourishing his right hand. In his left, he held a golden comb, enchanted with a glamour that shimmered in the darkness, dusting the surrounding air with a light sheen. 

Anduin’s jaw slackened. Bile kicked up in the pit of his stomach, and his heart leapt to his throat. “Yes?” His voice cracked. The servant continued to smile as he approached. 

“It is time, your Majesty.” 

“I—” Anduin stumbled to the threshold. The floor beneath him seemed to ripple as colors swirled and bled together. Beside him, he heard the soft pad of Wrathion’s curled shoes; they echoed like a memory, or a dream flashing before him, recalled in his waking terror. 

He reached out a shaking hand and closed his fingers around the comb. A sharp edge pricked his palm, but the twinge paled next to the ache stabbing at his chest. He looked first to the attendant, then out to the crowd, and, finally, over to Wrathion, wearing a placid smile.

Anduin whirled on his heels and tucked the comb in Wrathion’s hand. The other boy’s grin faltered; his brows shot up, and his pupils swelled as he uncurled his fingers and cast his gaze on the item. Its golden light danced in his golden eyes.

Head pounding, heart throbbing, Anduin clenched his hands, hugging them across his chest. The crowd fell silent, then erupted into murmurs loud enough to shake every window. At the back, leaning against a pillar, Katrana smiled. Her graceful hands lifted to her chin, and she clapped. 

Wrathion sucked in an audible breath. Anduin lowered his head.

* * *

Crossing his arms, Wrathion leaned between the bookshelf and the fireplace. His gaze wandered to a rug in the center of the room, dyed the same shade of indigo as the blue curtains tied shut at either side of a thick oak desk. The air hummed with what could only be a magical ward, likely at his Auntie’s command. He sighed and tapped the curled end of his shoe.

“I can’t believe you had the nerve to show up like this,” Katrana abandoned her tea, rising, and advancing on him with an even gait. She gestured to his armor with a flick of her slender wrist. 

“What a pity,” Wrathion mused, releasing his arms to readjust his black pauldrons. “I had always heard my dear Aunt Onyxia was known for her taste. How disappointing to learn the rumors were generous.”

Katrana pursed her lips; her black hair quivered about her pale cheeks as she shook her head. “I chose gowns for you. I had them laid out on your bed: one for the ball, another for supper, a casual dress for lunch.”

“And I assure you, I would have looked quite awkward in them. They really aren’t my style.” He tilted his head forward, resting his finger upon his goatee. The corners of his lips curled into a smile. “As I warned you before I arrived, I will only do this if I’m permitted to behave as I wish. If I recall, you agreed to my conditions.” 

Katrana wrinkled her nose. Stepping closer, she slid her hand up under his chin, swatting away his finger and forcing him to meet her gaze. His eyes narrowed. Her thumb pressed upwards, the nail poking against the floor of his mouth and snapping closed his jaw.

He sneered, gritting his teeth. She murmured, in a voice as smooth as a song, “At the time, I had no idea how far my brother had let you stray. Fahrahian always had his own way of conducting himself, but I trusted that, in this, at least, he would keep your mind fixed on your goal.”

“To woo the king, yes,” Wrathion muttered. “So I have heard. And here I am, doing just as I was asked! I fail to see why I am being scolded. After all, wasn’t _I_ the one he selected for that silly courtship last night?”

“At my behest, and with my extensive influence,” she sighed, releasing her grip on his chin and clutching, instead, at the top of his shoulder. Even through the leather garment, her claws dug into his skin.

He tensed, brows rising beneath his loose curls. His lips pursed into a line. “Don’t be silly. I was the one on the balcony with him. I was the one gossiping with him, charming him—”

“Because I enchanted him to look for you,” she insisted. “Really, did you think he wandered out on the dance floor of his own accord?” 

His mouth went dry. His heart fluttered, and he clenched his hands by his side.

“Pity, I would have thought you more perceptive than that,” she murmured. “When I caught him, he looked ready to retreat to his quarters.”

“Perhaps,” Wrathion admitted, cursing the way his voice fell on the final sound. “And yet, I was the one who made him blush. I saw it. Trust me on this, Onyxia…”

The elder dragon turned her gaze towards the fireplace. Orange light caught in the corners of her eyes, and Wrathion trailed off, realizing he was speaking more for his benefit than hers. She withdrew her hand from his shoulder, smoothed out her dress, and began in a gentler tone:

“My dear Rhalina—”

“Wrathion,” he interjected, his voice strained by the lump in his throat.

She went on, keeping her gaze fixed on the fire, “This was supposed to be easy, seamless, even. We gave you all you needed to succeed, and my brother prepared you to soothe, to charm, to manipulate, as I have done, and as my father did before me. That was your charge, your purpose—” 

“And as I said a moment ago, I am—" 

She clicked her tongue, tucking back her hair and angling her shoulders to face him. Her round pupils stretched into slits. “Even if you somehow manage to win his favor, you will draw far too much attention to yourself in the process. Murmurs are everywhere after your little stunt last night. The servants are talking. The papers are talking. The House of Nobles is uproarious. The Prestor name is on everyone’s lips.” 

“That is what you wanted, is it not? To secure the family legacy?”

“Not like this, _Wrathion._ ” She spat the name like a curse. “Not like this.”

Shrugging, he lifted his hand and regarded the tips of his fingers. He crossed his right ankle over his left and leaned deeper into the gap in the wall. Katrana’s yellow eyes bored into him, but he evaded her stare, inhaling the rich scent of leather-bound volumes, and listening to the persistent tap of her heel against the stone floor. 

“I really don’t think you’re taking this seriously. I’m disappointed in you. Your mother would be disappointed in you, as well.”

An ache sparked in the dragon’s chest. He looked to the side, towards the featureless end of the wooden bookshelf. It was as if a cold hand reached out and grasped his neck. Voice shaking, he shot back, “Yes, well, we won’t ever know what mother would think, will we? Not after your sweet brother Nefarian bred her to death.” 

The image of a drake with broken wings rumpled over a swollen belly and a cracked maw chained to a filthy stone floor rose, unbidden, in his mind, as it had done many times in his short life. A whisper inched up the back of his neck, quivering on his skin, murmuring incomprehensible sounds into his ear. Squeezing closed his eyes, he fought to chase it away. 

Onyxia leaned forward, close enough to ruffle his hair with her breath. “Making you,” she reminded, as if he needed reminding. “For this. Don’t let her sacrifice be in vain. The way is clear for you, child. All you must do is follow it.”

He stared up at her. Pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he straightened and muttered the only words he could manage, “He does seem to find me attractive.”

“The young king’s…proclivities have long been suspect.”

“That’s rather fortunate for me.” He forced a smile. Katrana stepped back and shook her head. 

“You’re not here to be his bedmate. You’re here to be his betrothed, to move skillfully among the nobles, sending letters, organizing parties, seeing to other queenly duties.”

“Then I am afraid you are going to have to ask someone else.” Before she could react, he shifted onto his right foot and darted left, escaping through the small gap between her shoulder and the shelf. His steps quickened. 

Behind him, Katrana spun on her heels and hissed in ragged draconic, “Where do you think you’re going?” 

“To get some fresh air, dear Auntie,” he replied in Common. “With all due respect to your cleaning staff, this office is rather oppressive.” With his back turned, he let his smile waver, clenching his teeth, and digging his nails into his palm. “Perhaps we can continue this conversation somewhere more open, some other time.”

Circling around her desk, he glanced at her half-empty cup. Tendrils of steam no longer rose from its porcelain rim; the tea it contained was bronze, and placid. Beside it sat a pile of letters, and on top a golden opener his finger itched to snatch. 

He left it, but only because the rustle of her skirt drew near. “Now, if you’ll please—” he lifted his voice, squaring his shoulders and stepping around the last bunch of curtains on his way to the door. “Release whatever enchantment you have had your mages cast upon this chamber, and I will let you return to your mail.”

She sighed, stopping at the corner of the desk, wrapping her pointed fingers around it. “Rhalina, please. This is your purpose. This is why you _exist._ ”

Jaw tightening and shoulder blades drawing together, he stared at the door and repeated, “Release whatever enchantment you have had your mages cast upon this chamber.”

“Don’t squander this opportunity—”

“—Or I will use my powers to blast a hole in the wall, and I think we can both agree that would put me out of the king’s good graces.”

Onyxia huffed. A curl of smoke drifted in the air above his head. After a pause, she conceded, “Two long knocks and one short rap. My attendant will withdraw his spell and allow you to pass.”

“Thank you, my dearest Auntie,” he snipped, as he extended his hand, tapped out the code, and, when the humming ceased, wrenched open the door. 

Over the threshold, a red-haired servant waited with his hands clenched around the middle of a plain metal staff. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. He staggered to avoid Wrathion’s feet as the dragon leapt around him and strode down the corridor. 

The hallway was silent for a moment, but the whisper returned. It started as a murmur beneath his feet, deep below the crust of the earth, then swelled behind him like a shadow. His lower back tightened. His shoulders rose to his ears, and he took off, crossing from one woven rug to the next, hurrying past enough doors to lose track of where he had been. 

His gaze darted from one portrait to the next, hunching to avoid the identical smirks that wrinkled their faces. None of them glowed or brightened like their living descendant. Their cold eyes invaded his mind: too many eyes, like pools widening, and dragging him down…

Shaking his head, he turned into the main hall, crossing the empty throne room and stepping out into the yard. A shaft of light escaped from between two clouds, falling upon the pink petals swirling around his ankles. He breathed in their gentle scent, wiping his palms on his black leather pants. He closed his eyes. A breeze swept through the curls stuck to his forehead. 

At the other end of the lawn, a sword clanged, then quivered. Wrathion shielded his eyes, watching a blond head bow and a familiar pair of shoulders slump forward. Anduin wrapped both hands around the hilt of a claymore longer than his leg and tugged it from the sand. Tripping over his feet, he swung. A bearish trainer growled, striding towards him with his hands outstretched.

Abandoning the cherry tree, Wrathion took a few steps in Anduin’s direction. As he approached, he caught the trainer’s huff, though what he grumbled under his thick mustache Wrathion couldn’t make out. 

The king poked the sword into the sand between his legs, heaving a sigh and wiping the sweat from his sandy forehead. Wrathion’s stroll quickened to a saunter, until he arrived at the weapons’ rack and trailed his fingers along its metal bars. 

He took care to linger on every hilt, squeezing their leather-wrapped handles, until he found one towards the end of the line that fit snugly in his small palm. Its iron guard stretched over his knuckles. He lifted it, watching as its thin blade quivered in the air. 

Both Anduin and his trainer turned their heads. While the trainer’s face flushed with frustration, the redness that claimed Anduin’s cheeks had little to do with the heat. Stepping around the rack, Wrathion held out the cutlass. He grinned and took a step forward.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he drawled, his gaze falling upon the king’s ill-fitting chestpiece. “I was simply watching you from the garden, and I thought I might offer a bit of advice.”

Anduin opened his mouth, but the instructor cut him off, his jowls quivering. “Advice? What kind of advice? Who are you, and what are you doing interrupting His Majesty’s training?”

“It’s all right, Gordon,” Anduin’s voice rose, the sentence punctuated by a labored breath. “This is—”

“Lord Wrathion Prestor, sir, or, as I’m known in the north, ‘the Black Prince.’”

“Oh.” Gordon’s beady eyes widened. He bowed his head, muttering, “My lord.”

“No need, really.” With a wave of his free hand, Wrathion extended his sword into the gap between them. Another shaft of light caught on its silver surface, casting a long shadow across the sand. He smiled. Anduin’s brows rose. 

“As I was saying, as I observed you two sparring, I couldn’t help but notice how unwieldy this sword seems to be for our king.” He nodded towards the claymore, catching Anduin’s eye and smiling. The king didn’t return the look. His lips pressed into a line, and his fingers tightened around the hilt until his knuckles turned white. 

“I mean no disrespect, of course,” the dragon continued, glancing up at Gordon. “As I understand it, different styles of combat exist because humans tend to come in various sizes. His Majesty and I are similarly sized, and thus I thought I might offer a few tips.”

Gordon maintained an even stare, but his mustache quivered, and he tilted up his chin. “With all due respect, my lord,” he implored, in a thick Elwynnian accent. “It is Wrynn tradition to wield a sword, a proper sword. His Majesty’s arms won’t strengthen if he doesn’t practice with it.”

“And if they never do?” Wrathion asked.

Anduin shifted, digging his toe into the sand. Resting the hilt in one palm, he tucked his other under his elbow. His gaze fell on a clump of grass poking out from the edge of the ring. Wrathion gave the cutlass a flick, twirling it around his hand. He shot Anduin another smile, but the king looked away. Chest clenching, he took a step forward, and waved the point of his blade towards the longsword Gordon had discarded at his feet. 

“Lift your weapon,” he commanded. 

Jowls creasing beneath his chin as he looked down, the trainer froze. “My lord—”

“Your weapon,” Wrathion urged, with another quick jab in the sword’s direction. “Please.”

Gordon hesitated for a moment, then grumbled, “If you insist, my lord.” Splaying his knees, he bent over and picked it up, gripping it at his right shoulder. Grinning, Wrathion held out his cutlass, giving it a shake, watching the thin blade spring and tremble in the space between them. Gordon stepped forward and swung. Wrathion rolled to the side. 

His boots slid through the sand, and his right knee bent. Touching the earth with his free hand, he splayed his fingers and pushed down. When Gordon hewed at him a second time, he jumped out of the way, then twisted his sword around the blade and forced it aside.

Darting behind him in a flash of soundless black leather, he strained up onto his toes. As Gordon staggered, he wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pointed the nubbed tip of his blade at his throat. The trainer froze. Wrathion clutched the side of his chestplate and tugged. 

As Gordon lowered to his knees, his massive chest yielded to reveal Anduin’s wide blue eyes and cheeks stained a deep red. He grinned, and Wrathion replied with a slight bow of his head. 

“I’d like to learn that,” Anduin exclaimed, taking a few steps closer. “I mean, if you’re willing.”

“Of course, my dear. It would be my pleasure!” Uncurling his fingers from Gordon’s waist and withdrawing his weapon, he glided towards the king with open arms. The tip of his cutlass trailed through the sand. “It’s a little technique I picked up from my father and his associates. I’m sure they’d love nothing more than to see it passed on to our king.”

Gordon grunted, then threw himself down on a bench beside the rack. After glancing in his direction, Anduin dragged his sword to the edge of the ring and left it lying in the grass. He dusted his sandy hands on his pants. His blond head bobbed, and he extended his arm. Flipping the cutlass beneath his wrist, Wrathion slid the handle towards Anduin. Their fingertips brushed under its metal guard. 

The dragon’s skin tingled. Licking his lips and swallowing, he willed himself to focus on the grip of Anduin’s palm and the angle of his forearm. After stepping to the side, he caught the blade between his thumb and first finger, tilting it to the proper degree. Anduin tittered, his eyes slightly averted. Wrathion’s heart raced in his ears. 

“All right, my dear,” he shifted to the side, coming to stand at Anduin’s shoulder. Breathing in the musky scent of the other boy’s sweat, he bit his lip, and heat prickled at the nape of his neck. “The most important thing, before you even think of swinging the blade, is to make sure you learn the steps. The sword is an afterthought to legwork, and timing, and stealth.”

The words rose easily to his lips, but his mind wandered. When he bent his knee and squared it beside Anduin’s, he conjured an image of their limbs tangled together. As he turned and leaned into his back, he took in the softness of his hair, the heat of his sweat-soaked shirt, the rise and fall of his shoulders. 

He reached an arm around and readjusted his elbow; Anduin quivered against his chest. Knitting his brows, Wrathion kicked his boot in the sand and clutched Anduin’s hip, yanking it into position. The king let out a yelp, but it was lost under the throbbing in Wrathion’s ears.

Squeezing closed his eyes, fighting to ignore the hitch in his breath and the embarrassing dampness between his legs, Wrathion cupped his hand under Anduin’s tricep and nudged it aloft. He shuffled forward. Anduin followed. In his ear, he whispered:

“All right, now, like a waltz. Front foot, back leg. To the side.”

The young king faltered on the first step, but Wrathion caught him. He swung, and beyond the tip of his sword, Gordon sat with his hands clenched in his lap, watching them with a raised brow.

* * *

Darkness enveloped the Keep, seeping in through every crack in the stone. Its tendrils wrapped around chair legs, bed frames, closets, anything they could reach. They shook. The world spun. Shadows crashed through the hall like waves, and, on their retreat, they swept up Wrathion and carried him out to the void.

The portraits scowled. With yellow eyes glowing, they watched as he thrashed, sweeping his hands along the wall, trying to find purchase. The heel of his hand smacked against the knob of a door, but cold numbness dampened the impact. Squeezing closed his eyes, he screamed. Shadows plunged into his mouth and writhed in his stomach. The Keep fell, down, down beneath the earth. The floor rattled, then disappeared—

The dragon’s eyes flew open. His chest rose, and, when he shifted, he found his lower back soaked with sweat. He never sweated like this back home. 

His eyes darted from the lamp in the corner to the single thin window beside it. Swinging his legs off the bed, he wandered towards the sill, closing his fingers around the latch, and tugging it open. As he leaned in, the sides of the alcove grazed his jaw. He stole a cool breath and pushed away from the wall. Straightening his black sleeping shirt, he crossed the room, opened the door, and stepped out into the hall. He plunged his hands into the pockets of his purple shorts.

The hallway glowed a deep orange, augmented by gnomish lights set in sconces between every door. Unclenching his fingers, he sighed. Passing a mirror, he caught sight of his rumpled curls, and reached behind his head to comb them out with his nails. A sliver of yellow under the door to his left drew his attention. A shadow passed before it, and then he heard a voice, quiet but shrill:

“I just want to go home. I don’t see why we can’t go home.”

“Amelie, that is enough,” someone muttered. Wrathion paused and removed his hand from his hair. 

“But Claude is waiting for me. We’re supposed to meet on the fifth—”

“That is enough!” The door quivered. Arching his brow, the dragon inched closer. 

“I’ve told you not to speak of him again. You are a noble. You will sit on a throne someday.”

“Not on this throne. That little boy wants nothing to do with me. You saw it, too, father.”

“Quiet your voice,” her father snapped, louder than she had been speaking. “Where are your manners? What is the king overhears?”

“I don’t care if he overhears. I doubt he’d care, either. This whole thing is stupid. You can’t make someone fall in love.”

“You can and you will.”

“Then why don’t _you_ do it, father? He’d probably prefer your company, anyway.”

“Amelie!” 

Startled by the sudden jump in pitch, Wrathion shifted his weight. The board below him creaked. Behind the door, both footsteps and the swishing of fabric ceased. 

“What was that?” The man hissed. Wrathion’s heart clenched. He pivoted on his bare heels and took off, jumping from rug to rug until he reached the stairs. Circling downward, he passed one landing, then another, choosing the third at random and stepping out. This corridor was black except for a single halo encircling an open door at the far end. 

Shrugging his shoulders and pushing the tendrils and eyes of his dream from his mind, he made for it, padding silently across the cold stone floor. When he arrived at the threshold, he determined he had located the library. A fire crackled before a plush blue couch, and bookcases stuffed with gold-embossed volumes lined every wall. 

He rocked on his heels, breathing in the inviting scent of paper and burning pine. His gaze fell upon a seat in the corner, backed by two large windows that had been cracked open. With a faint smile, he stepped over the threshold. Off to his left, a book knocked against a shelf, and a small voice exclaimed, “Oh!”

Turning his head, he halted. Across the room, Anduin stood with his palm still pressed against a green leather spine and his mouth slightly agape. Wrathion’s eyes darted to his own loose, sleeveless shirt. He crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Your Majesty, my apologies. I wasn’t expecting to run into you here—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Anduin cut in. Shoving the book in its place, he dusted off his hands and headed in Wrathion’s direction. “I normally wouldn’t be down here, but I couldn’t sleep. I probably shouldn’t have had that coffee with dessert!”

His giggle hummed in the air. Wrathion’s smile widened, and he rolled back his shoulders, the tension in the small of his back long gone. “Perhaps not. Though it did taste delicious with that chocolate cake.”

“That was my problem. I couldn’t help it.” The pitch of Anduin’s laughter heightened, but then tapered off. He glanced down at Wrathion’s crossed arms. “What are you doing awake, by the way? I hope your room wasn’t too noisy.”

“No, not at all, my dear,” he replied. Glancing back at the window seat, he made up his mind, and lied, “I just wanted a nice place to doze, somewhere where I could watch the stars. Such is my habit back home. I hope I wasn’t being too forward by coming here.”

“No, of course not. Please, sit down. I can put out the fire, if you need.”

Wrathion shook his head, drifting towards the window. “That’s quite all right. You can leave it going. It smells rather nice, and I’m certain I’ll get cold without it.” Bending his knee, he climbed onto the cushioned seat, scooting along its side until he was firmly nestled between glass and the stone arch surrounding it.

He scooped up a pillow, tucking it behind him, and reached for another to place carefully at his side. “You can join me, if you’d like.” He offered, not thinking through his words until they left his tongue. Anduin’s cheeks darkened. He took a step forward and paused.

“I—” The king’s eyes darted towards the pillow. Swallowing, then biting his lower lips, he wrenched his gaze away to study Wrathion’s face. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Pressing his shoulder against the window, he held his breath. Anduin approached and joined him, mumbling something when their elbows brushed.

Wrathion tucked in his forearm and shifted his hips. Even with the small gap he created, he could feel the other boy’s heat warming the side of his torso. If he moved even slightly their bodies would press together. As tempting as it was, he held his breath, willed his pulse to even, and closed his eyes, drinking in a cool gust of air that slipped in between the panes. 

Something drummed in his ears. He thought, for a moment, it was his own heart, but discovered it was Anduin’s pounding beside him. Cracking open an eye, he watched his face. His nostrils flared slightly when he exhaled, his lips tightening and drawing out beneath cheeks as pink as the Keep’s cherry trees. 

Uncurling his arm, Wrathion pointed towards the glass, to a star glimmering between two mountains. “That one, I think, is my favorite,” he mused.

Anduin inclined his head. He cleared his throat and asked in a whisper, “Why is that?”

“In autumn, it always glows reddish. I rather like that. It makes it easy to find.”

“Oh,” Anduin replied. He shifted, their knees knocking together as he tilted his shoulder inward. “I mean, it has for the last two years. I don’t think it did before that.”

Wrathion’s stomach dropped. “Oh,” he managed, through the lump that leapt to his throat.

The king smiled. Wrathion quickly exhaled. “Yes, or, well, that’s what my tutor says. He says some of the peasants think it an omen, but he and the priests of the Holy Light assume it’s just a change in the firmament.”

“I had no idea,” Wrathion murmured, genuinely. He scooted to face him, pressing his hand into the small gap between their hips. “Well, I prefer that explanation to the peasants’, personally. I’ve never been one for superstitions.”

“Neither have I.” Anduin admitted. A bit of moonlight twinkled in his eyes. “But I do love the story of Elune and Malorne crossing the sky to meet. One of the kaldorei druids used to tell it to me.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one. Please, regale me.”

“I will!”

Anduin extended his slender wrist and launched into the tale. Wrathion squirmed until their knees rested gently together; he stared into his gentle smile. His eyes wandered to his pink lower lip, trembling with excitement as he whispered about the goddess’ adoration for the brilliant white stag. His blond bangs bounced against his bare forehead, and when he leaned forward, Wrathion caught the clean scent of soap and freshly pressed linen. 

His pulse quickened. Pressing his legs together, he clenched his teeth, and his cheeks started to darken.

Anduin went on. The lacings of his tunic swayed against Wrathion’s chest as he reached over him to point out a trail in the sky. “And they say it will always be there, marking her path, so that she might return to be with her love. I’m not sure how much of it is true, but it’s beautiful all the same. I really like that, the idea of love crossing all boundaries.” He chuckled, sitting back, and flashing a sheepish look. “I just…it’s nice. It fills me with hope.”

“No need to apologize, your Majesty.” Wrathion held up his hand. His gold nails glittered, drawing Anduin’s eye. 

“Anduin,” the king murmured, slowly. “You can just call me Anduin, if you want, when we’re alone like this.”

“Anduin, yes,” Wrathion corrected. “All right. I will remember in the future.”

“Thank you.” Smiling, Anduin relaxed against this pillow. This time, he closed the gap between their bodies. 

Wrathion froze, withdrawing his hand from under Anduin’s hip. The king arched his back, inhaling, then relaxing against the wall. His shoulder pressed gently against the top of the dragon’s clenched arm. Their gazes strayed to the opposite end of the arch.

Anduin whispered, “Thank you for helping me earlier, by the way. I feel like I’m constantly thanking you.” 

“You can stop any time, you know, my dear. It’s really my pleasure.”

“Well—” Anduin’s tongue pressed between his teeth, hissing a soft ‘th.’ He halted, shaking his head, and mumbling, “Anyways, I’m really glad you’re here. You’ve made this whole event—”

“Tolerable?” Wrathion smirked.

Anduin shifted, and replied, “Fun, actually. I don’t know how you do it.”

“I have a habit of making the best of tense situations, I suppose. Consider it my specialty.”

“Wrathion.” Anduin’s voice jumped. Chest clenching, Wrathion pressed back against the wall and slowly turned his head. His pupils widened. His stomach dropped as he looked into Anduin’s furrowed brows, and then—

Anduin leaned forward. Tilting his head, he inhaled and bumped his mouth against Wrathion’s. When he pulled back, all the blood had drained from his cheeks, and his breath was hot and erratic against the other boy’s goatee. 

Wrathion stared. His jaw tightened, and he glanced down at Anduin’s trembling lower lip. Head pounding, he wrenched his clammy hand from his lap and brought it to rest against Anduin’s cheek. The king quivered, then stilled. Wrathion tucked in his chin and dipped down.

Their lips met again: Wrathion’s dry and tense, Anduin’s wet from the hasty lick he had given them moments before. Sliding his thumb along his jaw, he threaded his fingers between his silky blond locks. His forehead creased as he recalled every book he had read, every drawing he had glimpsed in Fahrad’s collection. He found the back of Anduin’s head and parted his lips, flicking the tip of his tongue between his teeth. 

Anduin gasped, wrapping an arm around his waist, and pulling him in. Their chests pressed together. Wrathion lifted his knee and tucked it between his legs. The ache pooling in his lower abdomen swelled, warming him to the tips of his ears. He kissed and tugged and splayed the heel of his hand across the king’s cheek.

Beneath him, the young king moaned, and whimpered, “Wrathion.” His breath hitched on the final note.

At the sound of his name, his heart fluttered. He leaned back and stared into Anduin’s crimson face. His blond hair stood up when Wrathion withdrew his fingers, framing the top of his head like a tangled crown. His chest rose and fell, and his lower lip, swollen by the kiss, gently parted.

The stars glittered in his wide blue eyes, and when he smiled, Wrathion’s heart fluttered. 

After their bated breaths evened to steady, Wrathion noticed: the darkness had drawn back, the tendrils that had seeped into his head had recoiled, and everything, absolutely everything, was clear. 

The air around Anduin glowed, shimmering, and wrapping Wrathion in its warm embrace. For the first time in his life, he could see.

_Illustration by Ainlifun_


	2. Part II

Anduin paused at the threshold of the royal tournament box, left hand pressed against the wooden door frame and right foot poised on the tall first step. He bounced on his heel and shot a furtive look towards the risers: overpacked with nobles in elaborate hats and strung across with colorful heraldry. Swallowing, he yanked on the wall and pulled himself up. Off to his left, a ball hit the sand with a ‘thud.’

“And another for House Ridgewell!” A voice reverberated through the entryway. “Remington III has been training for this moment, and his efforts have proven not to be in vain.”

After scooting sideways around the hem of a white lace gown, the king emerged into an intimate room that opened to the tournament field. Along the back wall, a row of elderly women—the matriarchs of high ranking families, as well as a guest or two from aristocratic houses of the north—whispered among themselves as they passed a few pairs of opera glasses between them. To Anduin’s right, down a stair, lay another line of seats, empty except for two tall figures huddled in deep conversation.

Careful not to step too loudly, Anduin ducked his head and scurried down the row. The last thing he needed was for one of the women to notice him and decide to stand to announce his presence. He sank down into the seat beside Bolvar and lifted his hand to greet father and daughter with a soft “hello.”

Taelia stopped on the word “caber toss,” scooting forward to peek around her father. “Oh, your Majesty! Sorry, I didn’t see you come in.”

“It’s quite alright,” he hurried to assure her. Bolvar nodded, leaning back to give the two room to converse. “Please. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Taelia was just telling me about one of the games they play in Kul Tiras. Something akin to our shot put here, but instead of a stone, they use a...branch?” The older man glanced at her, and she nodded, her bobbed hair swishing beneath her jaw. 

“Yes! Or, rather, a bit more of a trunk, really, or a very large pole."

“I see.” Bolvar arched his brow, but a smile twitched at the corners of his lips. Pride ebbed at the edges of every word. “And Taelia tells me she competed last year, if you can believe that! The Kul Tiran air must be doing her well.”

The girl smiled, her cheeks darkening as she turned her eyes back on the field. Another lord approached the white chalk line, lifting a stone, spinning on the balls of his feet, and tossing it towards the center of the ring. Polite applause rippled through the crowd, but the competitor grunted, kicking the dirt with his toe, and muttering under his breath.

Anduin glanced over his shoulder to the empty chair beside him, touching the collar and buttons of his tunic as he tried to land on something he could discreetly slip off and drape over it. His fingers closed around his sash, but his stomach tightened. Heat prickled at the nape of his neck.

With a careful exhale, he turned his back on it, pursing his lips, and focusing, instead, on the way Taelia’s brows drew together as she watched the man take his second throw.

“You could compete, too, if you want,” he pointed out. “Next time, I mean.”

“You certainly could,” Bolvar mused. Straightening his back, he looked first to his daughter, and then to the king, his green eyes sharp but the lines around them soft and kind. “And I know the kingdom is hoping to see you out on the fighting grounds soon, too, Anduin. I hear your lesson yesterday went well.”

“Well,” he thought back to the lightness of the sword in his grip, the way it had shivered and sprung when it struck Gordon’s thicker blade. Wrathion’s voice had jumped an octave in his excitement as he had clapped and hurried out on the field. His heart fluttered as he recalled the bounce in his step. 

With a slight nod, he rose in his chair. “Yes, I mean, I guess you could say that. It definitely went better.”

“Gordon was impressed.”

“Oh!” The heat at the back of Anduin’s neck spread to his cheeks. Blinking, he glanced down at his lap. A gentle breeze swept through the box and ruffled his bangs. For a moment, he thought to mention that he’d learned a few tricks from Wrathion, but when he opened his mouth, a slender hand brushed the top of his arm.

“Excuse me, your Majesty. Is this seat taken?” Wrathion murmured. Bolvar and Taelia lifted their gazes. Swallowing, Anduin turned his knees to the side and shifted to stare up the front of an elaborate gold embroidered jacket to greet a familiar smile watching him from above.

The comb Anduin had given him at the suitors’ ball pressed his thick curls back from the left side of his face. The enchantment upon it shimmered on his dark skin and hair and brought out flecks of gold in his warm brown eyes. Anduin’s mouth went dry. 

“Wrathion!” he managed through the lump that had leapt to his throat. Lingering on the halo of light crowning his head, he pursed his lips and tried again. “No, of course not. Please, sit down.”

His pulse rushed in his ears. Wrathion withdrew his hand from Anduin’s sleeve and eased into the chair, smoothing out his wrinkle-less jacket and toying with the frog button beneath his collar. 

Bolvar leaned forward, extending his arm across Anduin’s chest. “Bolvar Fordragon.” He tilted his head. “And you must be Rhalin—”

“Wrathion,” the boy corrected, his voice smooth and his smile undaunted. Taking the older man’s hand, he gave it a shake, firm enough that it sent his gold bracelets clanging together under his sleeve. “Of House Prestor. You are familiar with my Auntie, I’m sure.”

“Yes, of course,” Bolvar didn’t miss a beat. “Lady Katrana serves on the High Council beside me, as one of my most valued advisors.” 

“So I’ve heard.” After withdrawing his wrist, Wrathion flashed a dazzling grin. When he squared his shoulders against the back of his chair, he returned an inch or two closer to Anduin. His elbow brushed his waist behind his arm, and the edge of his silk-clad knee rested against his thigh. He radiated a warmth that penetrated the king’s wool tunic, settling there, drawing every point of contact into focus. 

An awareness of the rise and fall of his slender chest burned in the front of Anduin’s mind. With his pulse pounding in his ears, he didn’t hear the clicking of Katrana’s heels until she was halfway down the row and headed in their direction. 

“Ah, speaking of!” Bolvar lifted his voice. “How nice of you to join us, Lady Prestor.” 

Wrathion turned so quickly his curly head bobbed and his leg pressed flush against Anduin’s. The dark haired woman looked over them, her lips curling into a simpering smile. She paused, tilting her chin, and drawing her maroon skirt out from between two seats. “Your Majesty. You’re looking quite dashing, this morning.”

“Thank you, Lady Prestor,” Anduin responded, every word measured, every sound practiced.

Her gaze lingered a moment on Anduin’s face, but hardened when she turned it upon the boy leaning next to him. Wrathion’s back went rigid, and Bolvar, too, must have noticed the darkening of her features, for he dropped his feet from the wooden cross stretch to the floor.

“And my dearest niece.” Her red lips drew into a line: patronizing at best, if Anduin were being generous. “What a lovely jacket you have. I don’t remember that one from your personal effects. Is it new?”

After a shrug and a careful rolling back of his shoulders, Wrathion waved his hand dismissively. His silky voice stood in stark contrast to the jolt that had passed through him before. “Oh, no, Auntie, I’m quite sure you remember. It was one of the items you left for me in the closet.”

Katrana’s brows arched, but the shock didn’t reach her green eyes. Glancing between them, Anduin tried to parse the layers of what should have been a polite exchange. 

Wrathion went on, flicking his wrist and flipping his hand to reveal his gold-tipped nails. “I hope you won’t begrudge me a few adjustments, however. I’m afraid the gown wasn’t really my style.”

_Adjustments._ The king broke eye contact with Katrana to stare down at Wrathion’s tunic, taking in every clean seam and bit of embroidery. Was it possible Wrathion…made this? His forehead creased; considering was the only distraction he had from the uneasy silence that passed between the older and younger Prestor.

To his left, Bolvar cleared his throat. At his right, Wrathion ran his nails along his gold frog buttons, his lips set in an unyielding line. After a moment laden with unspoken words, Katrana fanned out her skirt and straightened her spine, her eyes flicking towards the field as she murmured:

“Well, I am glad to see my sister has had you trained in the womanly arts. I had no idea you were such an accomplished seamstress.”

A ripple passed through the group. Wrathion’s boots clicked on the wood floor, and his shoulder blades drew together. The clanging of his bracelets in his lap quivered in Anduin’s ears and shook him down to the pit of his stomach. He reached a trembling hand to loosen his collar, and Bolvar did likewise, giving his cravat a tug and smoothing the ends of his beard. 

On his other side, a chair squeaked as Taelia dipped her head forward and flashed the boys a wary smile. “It’s real nice, that one, Wrathion,” she pointed out, resting her palm against the railing. “With talent like that, you could make a killing in Boralus. You’d put Daniel Brineweaver clean out of business.”

“Thank you, Miss Fordragon,” Wrathion stiffly replied, though his shoulder relaxed an inch against Anduin’s arm. 

She nodded, her green eyes darting between Wrathion’s shirt and Katrana’s long fingers tapping against the bar. “Just Taelia is fine. No one uses titles like that back home.”

“That must be quite a relief,” Anduin heard himself say. Flushing, he swallowed, clearing some of the tightness from his throat, before continuing, “What I mean is, I would love to see Kul Tiras someday. I read so many books about it as a child, about ships and sorcerers who can tame the sea.”

“The tidesages, yes!” Taelia exclaimed, propping her elbows against her knees. “I’ve even met a few, you know. They come to the Keep sometimes.”

“That must be fascinating.” Wrathion’s tone had returned to its usual lilt, the corners of his mouth twitching as he angled his right shoulder in to Katrana’s line of view. “I have met shamans, ah, Frostwolves from the valley beside my home, but I’ve never known anyone who could control the ocean itself.”

“Maybe I can show you both, then. If you come in the early summer, there’s a big ceremony out in Stormsong to bless the boats and sailors and pray for a fruitful crab harvest. There’s music, and cake, and mead—”

“Taelia,” Bolvar cut in, warmly, but with a warning jump on the final syllable. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. King Anduin and Lord Prestor have their own matters to attend to, you know, and it’s a long trip for them to make for a party.”

Anduin opened his mouth to reassure her, his heart leaping at the thought of a week out at sea, of meeting Wrathion under a stormy sky and singing songs into the twilight hours. 

Katrana, however, slipped in before he could put his surge of euphoria into words. “It must have been quite a difficult decision for you to let a foreign court rear your daughter.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Bolvar corrected, giving Taelia’s shoulder a gentle pat. “I thought life as a ward would do her well, after her mother passed. I was often called to battle in those days, and the Lord Admiral suddenly found herself alone. It worked out for both of us, and Taelia, too, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes,” the girl quipped. "That's right!"

Glancing at Wrathion, Anduin caught him smiling, no lingering lines of strain beneath the corners of his lips. His brows, too, had sunk back into their proper place, and when he reached up to toy with his goatee, the tips of his fingers no longer quivered.

Anduin’s chest lightened, and he inhaled the cool, morning air, catching the delicate scent of cherry blossoms and dogwood from the forest at the edge of the green. Katrana slipped a pair of glasses out of her handbag and brought them to the bridge of her nose, while Wrathion scooted in until his forearm rested gingerly against the outside of Anduin’s thigh.

Blushing, he forced his gaze to fall upon the field. The shot put competition had finished, and a row of targets had been dragged out into the sun in preparation for the next event. At the far end of the track, a cluster of riders led their horses into a line. Anduin’s thoughts turned to his own stallion, Reverence, and he smiled, relaxing his hands in his lap. 

The first rider mounted an Alteracian Thoroughbred and took off at a trot, the beast’s hooves thudding through the sand as he advanced on a target, drew a pistol from his belt, and shot—

_Bang._ The wooden box shook. Behind them, the women tittered, and their skirts whished as they shuffled to catch a glimpse of the rider sauntering past. Arching a brow, Wrathion leaned over and whispered, “A favorite event of us northerners. This one’s a bit sloppy, I’m afraid. See how he’s kicking his heels against the horse—”

_Twang._ The second shot grazed the metal bar at the target’s right. Someone at the far corner of the box gasped and pulled out her fan. Wrathion’s breath warmed the skin beneath Anduin’s ear, ruffling his hair, making his scalp prickle and his chest rise and fall. 

Emboldened by the third _bang_ ringing in his ears, Anduin unfolded his hands and reached down to take Wrathion’s fingers. Upon contact, his palm closed around him, and he squeezed. Anduin guided him into the space between their knees, his face flushed, and his stare trained on the rider. 

Wrathion murmured something under his breath. Leaning back, he crossed his other ankle over his knee and let the curled toe of his shoe bounce in the air above them. 

Another rider took to the course, missing two targets on their pass through the track, and dismounting with an undignified shake of their head. The third rode without incident, and then a fourth, shorter, and leaner than the others threw a leg over their glossy black horse and took off with their fingers on their holster.

“Ah, now that is how you do it,” Wrathion gestured with his free hand. 

Bolvar jumped in, shooting Wrathion a tentative smile, “A Gilnean Shire, I believe.”

Wrathion tilted his head in acknowledgment. Taelia rose in her chair, then leaned over until the heels of her hands pressed into the rail. 

If Bolvar noticed, he didn’t turn to her. His gaze moved from one boy’s face to the other, and he let out a soft chuckle. “Thought so. I always liked them. Something about the white hair around their hooves, and those tails—”

“They’re beautiful,” Taelia exhaled. The rider rounded the track, drawing an ornate blunderbuss with a silver handle, cocking the trigger, and aiming.

_Bang_. Smoke shimmered in the air. A bit of sunlight peeked through a hole at the center of the target, and then—

_Bang. Bang._ Two more perfect shots, two more gasps from the women seated behind them. Even Katrana arched her brows, her keen eyes taking in the lithe form of the rider bouncing in their saddle. 

“Princess Tess Greymane, ladies and gentlemen,” the humming voice declared. Everyone except Wrathion and Taelia rose a few inches in their seats. “Representing House Greymane of the Kingdom of Gilneas. What a pleasure to have her with us this year.”

The rider circled out of sight for a moment, and when she returned, she had removed her helmet and shaken loose her braided black hair. She slowed her horse to a walk and passed before the royal box. One hand gripped her horse’s black leather saddle, while the other balanced a single red rose between her thumb and index finger. 

Katrana sucked down an audible breath. Wrathion’s shoulder pressed into Anduin’s arm, and he traced his nails along the inside of his wrist, before tilting and watching the princess pass. 

Anduin’s heart jumped and blood rushed to the tips of his ears, but without so much as a glance from her cold gray eyes, she moved on, setting her sights upon Taelia and bowing as she extended the flower. 

“For you, Miss Fordragon.”

Taelia grinned. Their fingers brushed as the younger girl reached out and took the blossom. “Thank you, your Highness!” She exclaimed. Her father’s eyes widened, but he said nothing, his lips an unreadable line. 

Without further comment, Tess rolled her body forward and tapped the sides of her boots against her mount’s midsection. The horse turned and quickened towards the queue at the far end of the track, leaving the women behind them to whisper furiously under their breaths and Taelia to blush and pass the rose stem from one hand to the other. 

Smiling, Anduin let out the breath he was holding. Settling back into his seat and giving Wrathion’s hand another squeeze, he tilted his head until his hair brushed the top of the other boy’s shoulder. 

Taelia and Bolvar exchanged words, but Anduin’s mind fixed upon the steady rhythm of Wrathion’s heart.

* * *

Anduin’s heel skidded through the sand, kicking up pearly grains as he careened to the side with his blade outstretched. Anticipating his rather clumsy swing, Wrathion spun on the toes of his left foot. The tipped saber missed his arm and slid across the small of his back. As if propelled by its nudge, he sprung, turning in another half circle and taking a jab at Anduin’s side.

The king snorted, stumbling out of the way, but losing his footing a pace or two back. He teetered. His free hand shot out, and a puff of air escaped his clenched teeth with a hiss. Wrathion advanced, bending his forward knee and narrowing his eyes.

His lips spread into a toothy grin. “You’re forgetting the dance, my dear. Every step needs to be light. You are likely to roll an ankle if you keep digging your boots into the ground. Try bouncing on your toes, like so—”

The boy bobbed, his curls springing up and down in a single thick curtain. No sweat shone on his forehead, and his drawl came gentle and easy. 

Threading his fingers through his own moist bangs and shoving them back, Anduin huffed, bent his knees, and jumped.

His blade quivered, ringing in the space between them long after it grazed the edge of Wrathion’s sword. With a grin, he threw back his head and swayed again, sucking in his abdomen, tilting his hips to avoid another strike to his waist. 

He stuck out his right foot and shifted his weight. Wrathion slipped into the gap he had created, not stopping until his hip guards brushed his upper thigh. The king’s skin burned at their point of contact, and he glanced to the side, scanning the clusters of sparring soldiers and nobles scattered about the field before unfurling his fingers, leaning in and resting the heel of his hand against the curve of Wrathion’s waist. 

His scalp prickled beneath his sweat-soaked hair. He bit his lip, and as he snuck his little finger under Wrathion’s armor, a deep red blush blossomed upon his cheeks. 

The lord’s eyebrows rose. His eyes shone, and he tilted his chin to regard Anduin with an inquisitive stare. “You’re very red,” he teased, with only a hint of hoarseness to labor his words. “Perhaps a short rest is in order. I’d hate to see our High King overexerting himself.”

“I’m fine,” Anduin whispered, thick with all the strain and hesitation he failed to find in Wrathion’s quip. Why should he be the one to stammer when he was the one who made the first move?

Wrathion’s gaze fell from his face to the open collar of his shirt. Anduin bent at the waist, dragging his blade through the sand beside them and inching the tip of his boot deeper into the gap between his feet.

Finally, the boy’s deep bronze cheeks darkened, and he drew in his goateed chin. His smirk wavered, and his pupils swelled. “Your Majesty?” He clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. “In public? I didn’t think you so bold.”

“You told me to create a diversion,” he pointed out, though his chest trembled, keenly aware of the slim crevice that lay between them, a whisper of the spring breeze that could be cut off with a gentle shift of his weight. 

“A diversion, yes,” Wrathion conceded. “But if you focus too much of your mind on your opponent’s body, you are to get caught up in the—” 

The gravelly sound of a throat being cleared stole the murmur from Wrathion’s lips. They broke eye contact, and as the blood drained from Anduin’s cheeks, he turned to find Bolvar between the edge of the ring and the weapons rack. 

His arms hung loosely by his side, but his pale skin creased at the corners of his mouth beneath his bushy mustache. Anduin swallowed and took a measured step back.

The paladin bowed his head. “I’m sorry to interrupt, your Majesty, Lord Prestor.” 

At his name, Wrathion tilted and unfurled his wrist. “No, no need to apologize. I’m afraid the king and I got distracted with extra practice, and I have kept him far longer than his scheduled lesson.”

“It’s all right,” Anduin rushed to jump in. Tucking back a stray wisp of his hair, his fingertips brushed the shell of his burning ear. With a shake of his head, he attempted to cover it. His shoulders rose as he fought to steady his breath. 

“I hope I haven’t held up anything at court.”

“No, nothing of the sort,” Bolvar stepped into the ring, his plate boots leaving behind deep holes that the sand slid to refill. “I just came to ask for a few moments of your time. I thought we might walk together on the grounds before lunch, if you’re feeling up to it.”

“Of course!” After flashing Wrathion one last smile, he went to meet his regent, disregarding the hand he offered to put his sword back on the rack himself. When he had slotted it on one of the empty shelves, he dusted off his hands. He straightened and called out to Wrathion, “I’ll see you in a couple of hours, okay?”

“Of course,” the lord bowed, a bit too deeply. Fighting to keep the blood from returning to his cheeks, Anduin whirled around and stepped out on the grass. 

Bolvar joined him, and they left the training grounds in silence. It was only when Anduin started to break off towards the Keep gardens that the older man stopped him, holding out his arm and pointing to the thick grove of trees lining the gap between the lake and the mountains. 

“This way,” he said, his tone impenetrable. 

Anduin furrowed his brows but didn’t argue, following him from the lawn into the boundary where even sprigs of grass became clumps, tangled and ragged. With every step, they rose closer to Anduin’s knees, before yielding completely to vines and fungi that licked at the bases of the trees. 

Stepping over a particularly gnarled clump of brush, Anduin followed Bolvar into a break in the undergrowth, to a trail scattered with dead leaves beaten into the mud by many a shoe that had come before. A shadow passed over them. Anduin crossed his arms; a cool wind prickled at the wetness that lingered beneath his hairline. 

He narrowly avoided stumbling on a root as he hurried to keep pace with his regent. “Is something the matter?” He asked. For a moment, the only reply he received came from a black bird cawing on a branch above. 

Then, Bolvar stopped. Slowly turning to face him, he lowered his voice and offered a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry to drag you out here, Anduin.” He inclined his head. “I just need to ensure that what I am about to tell you is not overheard.”

“Is something wrong?” Anduin repeated. His heart fluttered as he took another careful step forward. The leaf crunching beneath his heel punctuated his question. 

After craning his neck and peering down the row of trees opening to the shore of the lake, he nodded once, flexing his plate-gloved fingers, and sighing. “I fear there is something wrong with Katrana Prestor. I feel like a fool for not seeing it sooner.”

“Wrong?” Anduin’s chest tightened as he weighed the word on the tip of his tongue. With Katrana Prestor? Aside from the embarrassing things she had said about Wrathion at the tournament, jabs that made Anduin wrinkle his nose, his thoughts narrowed upon a single moment, a gulp of heady perfume, a whisper tingling against his ears, squirming in the pit of his stomach…

He balked, dragging the edge of his boot through the mud, and saying nothing. 

“You don’t seem very surprised,” Bolvar acknowledged after a pause. 

Blinking, Anduin lifted his gaze. “I mean,” he selected each word, “She definitely has a way about her, and how she's been treating Wrathion, after inviting him here and everything.”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit more than that.”

“What do you mean?” 

Bolvar squinted, cupping his hand over his eyes to avoid a beam of sunlight leaking in from above. “It was Taelia who mentioned it first.” At the sound of his new friend’s name, Anduin’s expression softened. Stepping to the side, he leaned against the trunk across from his regent, relaxing his jaw as he listened.

“A few nights ago when she was walking back from the bath, she told me she got lost and ended up outside Lady Katrana’s quarters. The guards there, she said they looked like reanimated corpses, totally devoid of thought, and come to think of it, I’ve seen it, too.” 

“But you said it was night,” Anduin gently countered, though, if he were being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure why. “Maybe they were just tired, or drunk. I think we’ve all caught our night guards passing around the flask from time to time.”

The paladin nodded, but continued in the same hushed tone, “But that isn’t all. She also thought I seemed different after I went to meet with her alone yesterday. I don’t want to think ill of Katrana, but I feel like a veil has been lifted, seeing from my daughter’s perspective.”

Anduin licked his lips, hoping to regather some of the moisture he’d lost when his mouth had gone dry. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he stared at the forest floor, breathing in its rich, loamy scent. 

Bolvar gave him space to speak, but when he failed to seize it, he added, hardly louder or higher than the gentle groan of the tree branches overhead: “I know you are fond of Wrathion, and I like him, too. He seems like a fun kid.”

Lifting his gaze, he found his regent uncharacteristically flush. He couldn’t help but imagine where this was going, and imagining made his chest clench. After an inhale, he supplied, carefully, “But?”

“But.” Bolvar frowned. “There’s something about him, too.”

Anduin opened his mouth. Bolvar shook his head and cut him off. “Not about who he is, mind you. If he says he’s a man, he’s a man. It’s no business of mine to contend that. I just mean the way he speaks, his practiced gestures, the tone of his voice. He’s like her in a way I can’t quite pin down, but it leaves me with the same sinking dread. I’m sure you’ve felt it, too, Anduin.”

“No, not at all,” he answered, uncrossing his arms and putting his full weight upon his feet. “I’ve felt it with her, but not with him. I mean, of course they’re alike in some ways. They’re related, after all, but he isn’t—”

Anduin stopped when he heard the words tumbling from his lips. Light, he hated arguing, especially with Bolvar, but his pulse pounded and the heat at the back of his neck drove him forward. With a sigh, he shook his head, and frowned, more at himself and the situation than at the man standing before him. “I just know. I’ve spent a lot of time with him, he’s not—”

“Anduin,” the paladin warned. Deep lines creased the space between his brows. Stepping back, the king swallowed his next few points and willed his jaw to relax. 

Bolvar stared into his eyes, and explained, as if he were reading a royal decree: “When Taelia voiced her suspicions, I thought back to what I knew of the Prestor family. I asked Wrathion in the smoking room a few nights ago to provide me with the names of his parents, and I went to the library to check them against our records—”

“So you tricked him?” Ire licked at the pit of Anduin’s stomach. 

Bolvar shook his head, replying, calmly, “It was information freely given. He was more than happy to recite his lineage, to me, and to the other gentlemen present.”

An image of the boy standing in a circle of men twice his height, hands extended in a grand gesture and eyes roving their searching faces floated to the front of Anduin’s mind. Under different circumstances, he might have smiled; here, it made the tendons beside his ears go taut. Wincing, he choked out a short “and what did you find?” 

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. His father, Fahrad Prestor, has appeared at many a northern court, but his mother, Nyxondra, is nowhere to be seen. And Wrathion? Rhalina Prestor? No baptism, no confirmation, nothing as simple as a birth announcement.”

“But those could have been destroyed during the war with the orcs?”

“Yes, they certainly could have. And his father and mother might not abide by the customs of the Church of the Holy Light. I wouldn’t have come to you, your Majesty, if I hadn’t weighed every possibility. But the first mention I could find of Rhalina ‘Wrathion’ Prestor was from a Winter Veil ball in Gilneas last year, and all it said in the paper was ‘Wrathion Prestor arrived at the event alone, and left before dinner had started.’” 

“He doesn’t seem to like court customs, you know. He’s said pretty much the same—”

“This isn’t about court customs, Anduin. This is about a total lack of everything. Something is amiss. I’m not sure what. But I feel like the wool has been tugged down over my eyes, and I’m afraid the deeper we look, the darker this plot will become. I ask you to look past your fondness for the boy for a moment…”

‘And do what?’ Anduin longed to snap back, but he refrained, rolling his shoulders and lifting his eyes to the buds dotting the tangled branches above. In the distance, somebody whistled. A bird beat its wings, and the wind whooshed through the creaking tendrils of bark and new leaf. A few motes of sunlight brushed his cheeks, but they brought him no comfort. 

Closing his eyes, he imagined a sky studded with stars, the deepest and reddest among them smoldering. ‘Every year,’ Wrathion had said. He chewed on his lower lip as the same nagging confusion that had tugged at him that night tightened its fingers around his heart. 

Squinting back a faint prickle at the corners of his eyelids, Anduin arched his back and let the speckled shadow of the trees fall upon his upturned face. He let out a ragged sigh, “So, what do we do?”

“Nothing, for now.” Bolvar had his answer ready. “We just play it safe. I will keep an eye on them, and in the meantime, I ask you to be smart. You don’t have to stop speaking to him, but I’d like you to at least consider a couple of private dinners with some of the other suitors.”

“Who?” Anduin asked, too tired to protest. A tremble quickened up his spine when he heard his regent’s calm response. 

“Amelie Lescovar, for one. Her father has offered enough gold to finish the housing expansion we started last year. They’ve invited you to supper in the gardens at nightfall tomorrow night. I will not force your hand, your Majesty, but I ask you to at least consider…”

A cool breeze swept up from the lake and murmured through the gaps between the trees. It kissed the nape of Anduin’s neck and prickled at an already tight spot between his shoulder blades. The world around him faltered, trunks and brush blown away.

In their wake came a gray absence, like the fog that rolled in from the sea in the hour before the dawn. Head heavy, he bowed it forwards, and mumbled a single word lost beneath the crunch of leaves under his heel.

* * *

Leaning against the gray stone corner of a bustling dress shop, Wrathion peered down the curve of a canal-side walkway to a bridge he recognized, from Left’s thorough reports, as leading to Old Town. His fingers fiddled with a loose thread dangling from his black silk sleeves, and when he inhaled, he caught a whiff of fish sprawled out on a table in the sun.

Rather than wrinkling his nose, as one of the stiff noblemen he had met since coming to Stormwind might do, he smiled and basked in the gentle hum of city life, its streets packed with women in white work aprons, children darting between the hoofbeats of draenei and horses, alleyways branching into a labyrinth of secrets waiting to be explored. 

Under the blue eaves of a nearby shop, a gnome strained on his toes and shook a folder of golden watches at two laborers having a go at their overseer. A dwarf seated on a barrel behind them chuckled into the silver nozzle of his flask. 

With a flutter of curiosity, and having no desire to tap his boots against the cobblestone any longer while his aunt finished her business with the tailor, Wrathion took a step in their direction. A grubby hand against the hem of his tunic stopped him in place.

“Excuse me, my lord?” A small voice perked up. “Can I interest you in a kitten this fine spring morning?”

Turning, Wrathion met the blond boy’s blue eyes with an arc of his brow, before dropping his gaze to a ball of fur squirming against the open buttons of his filthy leather vest. Unlike his owner, the cat was pristine, as white as a cloud and with mismatched eyes that glittered like an emerald and sapphire ring. 

A smile twitched at the corners of his lips. His heart swelled as his thoughts turned to Salome curled up by the wood burning stove back home. “That’s a beautiful cat,” he replied with a slight incline of his chin. “Tell me, what is their name?”

“This one here is Violet,” the boy explained, shifting his arms to cradle the kitten against his shoulder. She tucked her face into his collar, stretching her claws before going limp in the crook of his elbow. “Ma calls her that on account of the eyes, blue and green like violets, and born in the last days of winter, like they poked right out through the snow, or that's what she said.”

“I see.” Wrathion leaned in, knitting his brows as he worked to parse the Westfallian accent. “So the eyes are an anomaly, then? It isn’t some mark of her species?”

“Not at all, my lord.” The boy bounced on his toes. His dusty hair bobbed; he splayed his fingers out beneath the kitten’s quivering tail. “A real rarity, this one. Perfect for a nobleman such as yourself. Whatdaya say, sir? Thirty gold and she can be yours.” 

“I, ah—” Wrathion shot a quick glance towards the Keep’s spires, partially obstructed by the clock tower before him. The cat would certainly look at home curled up in Anduin’s lap, but was it too presumptuous? How many whispers and stares would he draw climbing the stairs with a kitten burrowed into the folds of his tunic. 

“May I pet her?” He asked, while his mind worked out the logistics. Grinning and nodding, the boy held out his arms. The lump against his breast yawned, and her unparalleled eyes fluttered, then settled on the gold tips of his nails.

He extended his hand. The cat’s slit pupils sucked in, and she hissed. Blood drained from Wrathion’s cheeks; his back straightened, and he snapped in his wrist to tuck it between his chest and forearm. His heart pounded beneath his fingers. 

“Aye, Violet,” the boy chided. “Come on now. No need to get upset. I swear to the Light and the naaru, my lord, she normally isn’t like this.”

Wrathion managed a nod, though no words of reassurance or dismissal rose to his lips. From the way the cat’s fur prickled, he knew she knew what he was, and unlike the sleepy calico of Ravenholdt manor, she had no intention of keeping her secrets.

Wiping the sweat from his palm on his shirt, the dragon forced out a chuckle that snatched the air from the space between them. A curl sprung free from his bun and slid to his brow when he gave his head a quick shake. “No, no, no need to apologize, really. I, ah, perhaps she isn’t fond of my cologne—”

He had never been so grateful to see his aunt’s pale face emerge from the door of a shop. “Oh, excuse me!” He took a step to the side before her eyes settled upon him. After stepping around the child, however, he hesitated, shaking a gold ring from his pinky finger and squeezing it into his palm.

“Here,” he muttered, letting the item fall into the boy’s grasp without turning to him. “Get her something nice to eat, a fish, or perhaps some flowers over there for your mother.”

“Yes sir!” The boy laughed, clear and unhindered. “Take care of yourself, my lord.”

“And you, as well.” With an inhale, he quickened towards the steps leading up to the store front. Katrana’s green eyes brightened when he emerged from around the pillar. 

“Ah, there he is.” She extended her palm. The guards she had stationed at either side of the porch didn’t react to the sharp click of his heels. “Come, come, Wrathi, I have something I need to show you.”

He stared. His name, spoken with such reprehension in the carriage that had ferried them into town, fell freely and smoothly from her lips, as if she had uttered it a thousand times. He wanted to smile, but he found his face numb and unyielding.

A cool breeze swept up the exposed nape of his neck, and the shadow he had sensed following him since they departed the Keep loomed taller, craning in from the bottommost stair, and hissing—

His shoulder blades shot back. He shook his head, and took the remaining steps at an uneven patter. “Of course, Auntie Katrana. Please, lead the way.”

She stepped to the side. A freckled face framed by red-gold braids peered at him from over the threshold. “Oh, in Wrynn’s name, is this him?”

“It is.” Katrana slid her nails through her raven hair. “Come, Wrathion. Miss Jayne here would like to help you find more suitable attire.”

Perhaps it was the homey warmth of the store with its gold oil lamps and racks of leathers and linens or the offer of new clothing that soothed him, but after a moment the prickling at the top of his back dispersed and his arms unfurled to relax down by his sides. He smiled and inclined his head.

The woman’s cheeks brightened to the hue of her hair. She curtseyed, the back of her hand knocking a red cloth fruit speared with needles in her haste. It toppled, rolling off the counter and hitting the ground with a clink. 

She fell to her knees, scrambling, her green linen skirt and white apron billowing around her. Her back arched with the force of her stuttered apology. 

Wrathion scooped up the fruit and returned it into her hands with a single fluid step forward, though his throat tightened when he realized how hard she was trembling. “My lady,” he teased through the strain. Her blush deepened, and she shoved it into her pocket before sweeping her red curls off her brow. 

“He’s quite the charmer, as you can see,” Katrana quipped from behind them. Her voice fell both in volume and pitch, and she went on, “Now, Jayne, the back room, please.”

“As you wish, my lady.” All signs of life, all blushes and glittering eyes and hopeful glances in Wrathion’s direction, died, as if her face itself had been turned to stone. The green of her eyes devoured her pupils. She bowed her head, taking a step around the counter, and cracking open a door behind it.

Wrathion frowned. His teeth snapped together, and he shot Katrana a warning stare.

She smiled and held out her arms. “Well, my dear boy, what are you waiting for?”

“Was that really necessary?” He sighed in their native tongue. 

Katrana said nothing. Her deep purple skirt swished about her ankles as she stepped around him, and trailed Jayne into the work room. Rolling his eyes and giving the string on his sleeve another sharp tug, he followed at a distance, pulling the door closed behind him, chilled by the uncanny hum in the air and the lifelessness of Jayne’s once-vivid voice.

“Right this way, my lord. Up on the platform.”

Drawing his mouth into a line, he stepped up on the wood box and heaved an exhale, his chest rising and his fingers curling into his palms by his hips. The tailor opened a nearby closet and pulled out a mannequin wearing a set of black riding leathers, complete with a hood and mask and a sack fastened to its waist. 

Wrathion glanced from the outfit to Katrana. His thick brow quirked, and a question formed on his lips.

She cut him off. “Well? Is this commoner’s clothes to your liking?”

“What?” He shifted his weight and laughed, struggling to find the proper tone. “Traveler’s clothes? Are you sending me off already, Auntie? Is this some kind of ploy to get me out of the city.”

From the way her lips puckered and her green eyes narrowed, he decided, with a pang in the pit of his stomach, that he might not want to know the answer. After a few uneven exhales he was certain she heard, she murmured, coolly, “There has been some...unrest in the King’s Council as of late. Bolvar Fordragon is asking questions, and making my work rather difficult.”

Wrathion broke eye contact, turning his eyes upon Jayne’s stony face as she knelt before him and unfurled her measuring tape. “Tell me you aren’t laying the blame on me, after your _dour_ attitude at the tournament. If anyone has sparked suspicion—”

“I am not laying blame in any direction,” she contended, her tone unconvincing. Her high heels clicked against the wood as she paced. “I am doing what needs to be done, for both of us. King Anduin must be removed from the city until I regain the upper hand.”

“—Excuse me?” He froze. His power lapsed, the browns of his eyes giving way to burning crimson. 

Onyxia lingered beside a work table, sliding a spool into the center of the surface and thoughtfully plucking at its string. Jayne wrapped her measuring tape around his waist, but when her palm splayed across his hip, he felt nothing. Fingers that should have been flush and fumbling worked as mechanically as an automaton. 

The woosh of fabric unfurling stretched on. Finally, Onyxia frowned and gestured towards his face. 

“Fix your eyes, dear.”

Wrathion blinked away the draconic red, but the power he summoned didn’t smooth away the disgust wrinkling his nose. “What do you mean you’re going to ‘remove’ King Anduin?” He persisted.

She shrugged a single shoulder. “Just long enough to stop that idiot paladin from thwarting our plans. Really, Wrathion, there’s no need to scowl at me. I don’t intend to do anything to harm him.”

“And yet you’re here, charming some poor work girl and hissing at me. Really, Auntie, it doesn’t inspire confidence.”

“I merely wish to send him away to stay with your Uncle Nefarian. An escort will come to his room before nightfall, and lead him north into the mountains. My brother is known for his hospitality. The two of you will make yourselves comfortable in his home.”

_The two…_ The veracity beneath her lightly clipped words sank to the pit of Wrathion’s stomach. His throat clenched. He managed to choke out a hoarse “No.”

“What do you mean, _no_?” She swept the spool off to the side, leaning her weight against the table.

“I am not going to kidnap the King of Stormwind. No.”

“He will go willingly.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“He will,” she insisted. With a huff, she pushed off from the table and headed in Wrathion’s direction. Jayne’s fingers nudged up under his arms, and he lifted his elbows without a coherent thought, his entire mind consumed as it was by the reptilian glow of Onyxia’s stare. 

“He is fond of you. Everyone sees it, and you have the skills to convince him. Invite him away. Get him to Blackrock, and together we will draft a royal edict declaring he is taking his rest in the countryside. You two will pass the days in each other’s company, and I will deal with the regent. There is nothing that stands to be lost here, Wrathion.”

‘Except—’ he longed to shoot back ‘—for everything.’ Closing his eyes, he bit his tongue. His forearms tightened by his sides. When Jayne’s skirt bustled around his calves, he took a small step away, and when she strained to measure his shoulders, he rolled them back. His stare fell on the door leading back to the shop.

Beyond the wall, no doorbell jangled nor hanger clinked, but he could feel a presence drawing closer. It slipped like black smoke through the cracks and materialized in the corner to stare with a single orange eye, darting and dancing and boring down to his core. 

Swallowing the bile that kicked up in the back of his throat, Wrathion tore his gaze away. The work room’s gray walls and simple tables shifted to a dungeon, dank, bathed in the red glow of bubbling cauldrons and with the ever present drip of water splashing against the dull scales of a dragon curled on the floor…

He bit down on his lower lip. His bun knocked the back of his head as he shook it. He drove his heels into the box beneath him. 

When he found Katrana leaning on the table in front of him, arms crossed and purple lips drawn, his brows furrowed, his eyes narrowing beneath them. 

She clicked her tongue between her teeth and sighed: her voice soft, but anything but sweet. “Wrathion, Wrathion.”

“What?” He demanded, no longer stayed by hearing her utter his name.

“You have fallen for him.”

His mouth fell open. She continued, shaking her raven hair. “You really are a fool.”

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

“Hasn’t anyone told you?” She didn’t wait for his response. Turning away, she smoothed out her skirt and wandered towards the traveling leathers hung on the nearby mannequin.

“Earlier this week, the king agreed to meet with House Lescovar to discuss an arrangement, to their daughter Amelie.”

Wrathion’s knees buckled. It was as if a blow had been struck to his abdomen, knocking the air from his lungs. A cold hand slipped up the back of his neck and dug its fingers into his scalp.

“Excuse me?” He tried. He didn’t trust his voice to whisper anything more.

“Yes, my dear. I am sorry to be the one to break the news.”

“You—” He swallowed. “You are clearly just trying to manipulate me. I’m not one of your servants. You cannot simply—”

She held up her claw-like hand. Stopping, he squeezed closed his eyes. He could hardly hear her through the rush of blood in his ears. 

“I wouldn’t be taking this risk if our situation weren't dire. The dinner is set for later this evening, an hour after I have asked my escorts to arrive in his chamber. This is the only way, Wrathion. Believe me when I say we have no other choice.”

There was a foreign prickle at the corner of Wrathion’s eyes, a wetness licking between the thick rows of lashes. The kiss they had shared two days prior. Moments striking and pressing into each other on the training grounds. They threatened to tug his legs out from under him. 

Ripping the string from the hem of his sleeve in a sudden jerk that sent Jayne stumbling backwards, he stepped off the box. He wanted to whirl around, shift into his true form, and scurry into the sewers, never to have another eye fall upon him, never to bow or simper for these human mortals. 

Perhaps he could crawl out to sea, bury himself in the rocks by the shore, or hide in the bowels of a ship headed to Southshore. He would flee, and never see the spires of Stormwind Keep poking up from the skyline again. 

With an exhale, and a shudder he wanted to drive away, he asked, simply, “And if he won’t come?”

“He will come. Trust me, Wrathion, he will.”

Wrenching his thoughts away from the mountain pass winding up to his father’s door, he rubbed between his eyes and pressed the heel of his hand against his nose. When he withdrew his fingers, it was to cast an apprehensive look at the mannequin waiting by the closet.

In the opposite corner, the shadow swelled. It smiled, and Wrathion’s chin fell to the crook of his neck.

* * *

Wrathion took the stone stairs winding to the top of the royal tower two at a time, the unyielding leather of his new riding boots pinching his toes every time they connected with the floor. His palm gripped the polished wood banister, tugging his weight up the final rise and crossing over on to the landing. With a huff, he plunged his hands into the pockets of his new leather breeches, avoiding an askance look from a guard and rolling back his shoulders.

He passed before a long, gilded mirror, catching a glimpse of himself. His thick hair crimped where the band he had worn into town had held it in place. A rare gleam of sweat clung to his forehead. Beneath it, his dark brows furrowed. 

Pursing his lips, he turned his thoughts to his mission, to the words he had chosen on his carriage ride back to the Keep. ‘My uncle has invited us away,’ he would say. ‘Our escort leaves before the seventh bell. Don’t worry about sending a message to your regent; everything will be taken care of by my family. You deserve this, Anduin. After all you have done to appease these wretched nobles…’

With every step, the narrative started to unravel. Explanations that had come so easily now caught on the tip of his tongue. Ruffling his hair and straightening his collar, he rushed up the last three steps at the end of the hall. His knuckles rapped quickly against the door. On the other side, a chair squeaked. The patter of footsteps drew closer. A breath stuck in his throat. 

A pale face appeared in the crack between the door and its frame, two blue eyes marred by the shadows hanging beneath the king’s thick lower lashes. 

They widened, and his lips cracked to form a question. Lifting his hand, Wrathion cut him off. “May I speak with you alone for a moment, my dear?”

“Wrathion, I—”

“I have something very important to discuss with you. Please. I assure you, it will only take a moment.”

The king’s fingers hooked around the door, holding it in place for a few seconds. The lines between his brows deepened, and his gaze moved from Wrathion’s face to his booted feet. Leaning back, he drew slowly inward.

“All right,” he mumbled, his tone unreadable. “But I’m not sure I have much time. I’m sorry...” He shot Wrathion another long look before turning and wandering over to a desk taller than his waist. On it sat a pile of books, and beside them an even larger heap of parchment. 

The dragon followed, closing the door behind him, then tucking his hands behind his back. A cracked window behind the desk drew his attention as he approached. Perhaps he should pull it closed before continuing, if he could circle around and pass in front of it without drawing too much attention—

While he deliberated, Anduin fiddled with the belt bunching his blue wool jacket. A gold lion on his lapel caught a glint of orange light from the flames licking the logs in the fireplace. 

A prickle returned to the corners of Wrathion’s eyes when his treacherous mind recalled why the king was dressed in his formal attire. Shaking his head, he blinked it away, and let loose the first words that came to his lips, “You must stop this, Anduin.”

The king’s brows rose. Something flickered across his features, a jolt, and tautness that came in its wake as he bit down on his lower lip. “What are you talking about?” He templed his fingers against the desk, his gaze falling towards the blue rug to his left. 

Wrathion took a step forward. He cursed his chest for tightening and his arms for flying open, but once his mind caught on the pang he couldn’t stop. “Amelie, really?” His voice quivered on the question. The heel of his hand landed on the crown of Anduin’s chair, and he bore his weight upon it, the wood pegs beneath him creaking and groaning. 

Anduin’s frown deepened. His back rose and fell as he sighed. He plucked at a quill he had left on the corner of his desk. “It’s just a dinner, Wrathion. Just a formality. I didn’t really have a choice. I’m not going to—”

“You always have a choice. You are king! What does it matter what some nobleman thinks of you?” Wrathion’s heart pounded in his ears, and with every sound that left him he found it harder to temper their flow. A tapestry of lies undone with a single yank at the thread, his claw-like fingers grasping for something to ball up tightly in his fist. 

Turning away, Anduin exhaled. His arms fell limp at his sides. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Wrathion’s brow creased. His face flushed, and he opened his mouth to protest. Anduin cut him off. 

“Whatever is going on here, I want to know the truth. I want to stand up for you, Wrathion, but how can I if you won’t be honest with me?”

“There’s no need to stand up for me, my dear,” Wrathion countered, but his automatic response stood wholly apart from the dread quickening in his veins. Digging his nails into his palms, he drew back his shoulders until they ached, shooting the window another furtive glance.

“Really, I assure you. Whatever you’ve heard—”

“Why aren’t there records of your birth, Wrathion? Why didn’t anyone know about you until last Winter Veil? If you were taken in by the Prestors, please, tell me. I can submit the decree, your aunt and I can instate you in the House of Nobles, but I need the truth. If I want—”

This time, Anduin stopped without any interruption from Wrathion. His right elbow rose as he loosened his collar and toyed with the buttons of his coat. The words he had gasped out quivered in the air, broken only by the occasional crackle from the fireplace and the throbbing of Wrathion’s heart between his eyes.

Cheeks numb, and tongue thick against the floor of his mouth, the dragon stared past Anduin’s head to a painting of the harbor at dawn. Smudges of sailors and merchants bustling by the water going about their morning chores—not a single eye flickered to fall upon him. 

Instead, he was left to himself, hovering between the back of Anduin’s chair and the open window. He shifted his weight from one tight boot to the other. A cool breeze slipped in and brushed the flushed curve of his cheek.

Anduin waited; the ins and outs of his breath stretched on with every moment that passed until Wrathion cleared his throat and replied, “Can’t a man simply maintain an air of mystery around here?” The lilt in his voice rang like a note off-key. 

“People don’t just appear from nothing, Wrathion.”

Wrathion’s teeth clenched with a ‘click’ behind drawn lips. The ground beneath him swayed, and he scanned the room for something to focus upon, something by which to craft a more fitting response. “No,” he admitted, after a weighty pause. “No, I suppose you are right.” 

Anduin glanced over his shoulders. When their eyes met, Wrathion found the king’s pupils blown wide. Shadows cut from the corners of his trembling lower lip to his jaw. He stared for a moment, then shook his head. The dragon hated lying to him like this. 

Uncurling his fingers and closing his eyes, he readied the words he had prepared, but tossed them away, turning instead to those he had sworn never to let out. 

He never got the chance to say them. A heavy fist pounded at the door. 

“Your Majesty?” A voice called. Anduin’s jaw went slack. 

“What is th—” He started, but another knock cut him off. 

The dragon stumbled, grasping the window ledge hard enough to leave scratches with his long nails. His curly hair bounced as he looked from Anduin to the door and back again. The escorts on the other side of the threshold rattled the handle, murmuring amongst themselves. 

An unfamiliar voice exclaimed, “Your Majesty? Are you ready?”

The human quirked a brow in Wrathion’s direction, before taking a single step forward. 

The dragon’s free hand shot out, as if he could stop him with his wrist from across the room. “Anduin, please, that is not—” He choked.

The king narrowed his eyes, dropping his voice, and muttering, “Wrathion, I need to go.”

“No, Anduin, please—”

“Why? Give me a reason why, Wrathion, and I will stay, but if you’re going to stand here and—”

“King Anduin?” The escort’s voice rose to match the jump in Anduin’s pitch. “We cannot wait another moment.”

“They aren’t here to take you to supper, Anduin. You don’t understand—”

“Then tell me!” The king blurted out. A plate-clad fist hit the door with a squeal, and Anduin whirled on his heels. The blood drained from Wrathion’s cheeks as he watched the king’s fingers close upon the lock. 

It turned with a snap. The door creaked. Wrathion flung the small of his back against the windowsill and fought to steady his breath. Anduin opened his mouth and sputtered as two guards with empty gray eyes rushed into the room. 

Driving the soles of his boots into the floor and clinging to the stones behind him, the dragon weighed his options, to go or to flee, to disappear, or to—

Anduin bit down on his lower lip. Taking a step back, he looked to Wrathion. His lips parted in a soundless cry. 

Wrathion knew what he needed to do, no matter the risk, nor the cost. Squeezing closed his eyes, he shifted, his form sucking down into a scaled body hardly larger than the kitten he had seen at the market. Scratching into the grout-filled grooves of the stone wall, he climbed, springing on to the ledge and squirming out through the half-open window.

A gust of cold air swept from his face to the ridges lining his back. He unfurled his wings, beating, desperately, and lifting himself from the sill.

Behind him, Anduin’s cry found voice, rattling the glass and racing up his tiny draconic spine. As he ascended, it grew fainter, but the jolt that had come with it lingered, tightening and twisting Wrathion’s innards, tugging at his lungs as he fought to suck down a breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally thought of this as two chapters, but it's honestly going to be much longer. I already have three more chapters outlined after this, so, uh...oops. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it! ♥


	3. Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind words and encouragement! I really appreciate it!! ♥

Anduin bowed forward; an unyielding arm wrapped around his waist, tugging him until the back of his heels dragged against the carpet. Reeling and fighting to breathe, he didn’t realize he was being pulled upright until one escort clenched his elbow and the other prodded his back. He curled his toes, but they shoved.

He shook his head and insisted they let him walk to the gardens, or at least to the guard house, where he could confirm the veracity of their mission with their superior officers. They didn’t bother to answer, jerking his arm and sending him stumbling down the steps sandwiched between them. 

He found the hallway shockingly, unsettlingly empty. Even the gnomish lights had been dimmed, humming more than they twinkled, and beneath the doors lay only shadows, as if the hour were three past midnight rather than five before. 

Anduin grit his teeth, and his thoughts turned to the dark creature who had slithered out his window. He might have believed this a dream from which he would snap awake and find himself headfirst in a letter or open book but for the strain of his tight formal boots and the scratch of wool against his sweat drenched neck. 

The escort spiraled down the stairs and into the bowels of the Keep. His heart leapt when they passed the door leading to the main chamber, but when he opened his mouth to shout he realized it had been bolted shut. Was the entire city under some kind of spell? 

After a few more turns around the tower, they stepped into a corridor lined by torches, which turned into a boot-beaten dirt path out to one of the Keep’s emergency tunnels. ‘Were they under attack?’ He wanted to ask, but, given what he had seen in his quarters, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. 

Every thought in Wrathion’s direction sank like stones in the pit of his stomach. He exhaled, and shuddered, and blinked through the thick veil of smoke billowing in the narrow passage. Its acrid bite tickled the tip of his nose. Hanging his head, he loosened the muscles of his shoulders and let the resistance slide from his arm. He shuffled between the escorts in silence, until a familiar figure took shape, with moonlight flashing on her raven hair, leaning against a doorway several feet in front of them. 

Even at a distance, Anduin caught a flash in her green eyes as they roved over the group. Her purple lips parted, and she bared teeth sharper and whiter than they had ever looked in the sun.

A breath stuck in his throat. The guards pressed on. As they drew closer, she muttered, “You only brought the one.”

“He left, my lady,” the guard at Anduin’s right croaked, a bit too slowly, for the first time since barging through his door. “Right out the window. We couldn’t stop him.”

“I see. And he…?”

“Saw, Lady Prestor,” the other escort supplied under his breath. Both of their gazes fell unblinkingly upon her. 

Anduin shifted, glancing between them, before whispering, “What did I see? Are you talking about Wrathion? I don’t know—”

“Now, now, my dear boy. That will be all the questions for tonight, I think.” With a flick of her wrist, Katrana sashayed forward, barely making a sound against the dirt floor. She had traded in her broad skirt for a slimmer one, slit up to her thighs on both sides. It moved with the swing of her legs, catching the torchlight, glittering and dancing in the shadows. 

Anduin’s gaze fell upon it. When he looked up, he found eyes glowing a vivid chartreuse, and pupils that stretched to slits as she leaned in and blew—

A burst of light and air exploded before him, and he teetered back a few paces, swinging his arms and grasping for purchase on a nearby wall. He never felt the heel of his hand make contact. Numbness swept from his head to every extremity, and then darkness: infinite and complete. 

When he awoke sometime later, it was to a window above him sliding open and a hand stretching down to offer him water from a silver-tipped drinking skin. Licking his lips and slowly uncurling his legs, he pulled himself up and accepted.

After a few sips, the details of the vehicle that served as his prison gradually took shape around him. 

He had lain on the bench of an empty carriage long enough that the small of his back refused to bend without first twisting and arching. The tight joints in his spine finally cracked, but left a bitter ache in the wake of the snap. His shoulders screamed, and the tips of his fingers tingled around the drinking skin. 

When he jostled back open the window between him and his driver, a sliver of sunlight slipped across his face and onto the opposite wall. There were no other windows to crack or curtains to draw. There was only the slat that lay between him and his escorts, and no matter how many times he pushed his face into it and let questions spill from his lips, the only sound that honored him with a reply was the steady hoofbeats of horses traveling a dirt road.

Beneath him, the carriage swayed. A series of locks and chains jangled and knocked against tightly sealed doors. With a sigh, Anduin crossed his arms, closed his eyes, and turned a silent prayer to the Light. 

Alone in the darkness, however, it was the glint of Wrathion’s smile, suave and daring, that sparked in the front of his mind. The gleam of sunlight on his curly hair. The sheen of black scales slithering up his fire-lit wall and disappearing into the night.

The line between nightmare and worry wavered as the moments slipped by. With a tug at his sleeves and a clench of his fingers, he fought to think on anything else, but when he abandoned his questions about the night before his mind turned to his mounting discomfort: the ache at the back of his knees, the stifling air pressing on his shoulders, a pang in his stomach and a nagging need for relief that built in his groin when he tried to stave off hunger by sucking down water. 

Wherever they were going, he dreaded it less with every moment he spent in the carriage. But as time continued to slink on, his cheeks grew cold, and he wondered, quite improbably, if his escorts intended to drive him around until their horses’ legs gave out in front of them.

Then, without warning, the carriage stopped. The sudden shift snatched him from the edge of consciousness. He scooted onto his knees, reaching for the window, wiggling it loose, and—

A clang like the clash of swords ripped through the air. Beyond the wall, one of the escorts grunted, while the other jostled their reins. Leather cords thumped against wood. Armor plates clattered together, their ring quivering in Anduin’s ears, drumming in the gap between his eyes. 

At his right, a high voice let out a whoop, while another, lower and thicker, muttered something he couldn’t make out. Crawling from one bench to the other, he fumbled with the latch of his belt, the only item he had on his person that could possibly, conceivably, be used to defend himself.

His favorite new saber at the Keep was a distant memory. Sweaty fingers flicked at the iron buckle, shaking even more furiously when footfalls approached the door and freezing when the steps halted, and banged—

 _Bam._ Someone pounded, and the whole carriage trembled. His heart stopped; a second bang, even louder than the first, struck the wall, splintering the wood beneath it.

The door loosened on its hinges, but the chains strained against the sunlight seeping in through the gaps. To Anduin’s horror, a black-gloved hand wormed its way in. It bent at the wrist, driving a pin in the top lock and snapping it free.

His boots hit the ground, and he readied to throw his shoulder against the door should the fingers loosen the second latch, but as he swayed to the left a pair of gray eyes appeared in the crack.

Searching beneath furrowed brows, and with pale lips curled in a familiar grimace. Black wisps of hair clinging to her forehead under a drawn black hood. 

Anduin’s jaw slackened. His weight sank into both feet. “Princess Tess?” He sputtered, as she scooted down and turned to get a better look at the second lock.

It snapped free under the deft twist of her hand. The door creaked open, and she took a few steps off the cart, wiping her palms on the tops of her leather pants. “Here,” she called, rather than answering his question. 

Anduin balked. As he worked to recover his voice, another figure emerged behind her, donning similar black leather trousers but with a piercing red glow about his eyes separating him from the woman before him. 

Thick black curls framed his angled cheeks and bronze skin, and beneath a prominent nose his lips pulled into an unyielding line. His thumb and his first finger twisted a goatee at the tip of his chin.

Shaking his head hard enough that his bangs smacked the side of his face, Anduin crossed his arms and stared at him from the doorway. 

“Wrathion?” He muttered. 

The crimson-eyed boy looked up at his frown. His voice jumped, but his expression remained unchanged. “Ah, yes, excellent. Here you are. I hope my Auntie’s servants haven’t made your day too unpleasant.”

The king didn’t think his chin could sink any lower, but when Wrathion spoke as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t turned into a beast and wiggled out his window while his aunt’s guards invaded his room, it plummeted into his collar. He looked from Wrathion to Tess, who was studying him with a searching, but mysterious, frown. 

As he averted his gaze, Wrathion stepped around her and reached out his arm to offer an open palm. Anduin glared at it. The Prestor boy slowly withdrew. 

“Look,” he tried again, selecting an evener tone. “Your Majesty, I am certain you have questions, and I assure you, I have answers. We will have more than enough time to discuss them on our journey, but we must leave now, before the guards regain consciousness. Unless you would prefer my attendants simply kill them, in which case…”

“No,” the king snapped, his blue eyes flying open. He barely recognized the body standing before him, and it had little to do with his gaze’s inhuman glow. Taking a step into the light, he gripped the detached door with one hand and leaned out, craning his neck. 

At the front of the carriage stood the two women who had flanked Wrathion that day in the hall of his Keep. The taller of the two shouldered a bulging rucksack, while the shorter unhooked a shaft from a horse’s harness. A gleam to their left caught the king’s eye, and he followed it to two plate-armored soldiers slumped against the trunk of a tree. 

Tess took a step back and glanced at Wrathion. Without a word, he waved his hand, and she went to join the women, a sack bouncing on one hip while her blunderbuss hung tucked in its holster on the other. Her long braid swayed behind her. Anduin had so much he wanted to ask, he didn’t know where to begin.

“No,” he repeated; once the sound had breached his lips, the other questions rushed forward, tripping over top of one another. “What happened in my room last night, Wrathion, and what in _Light’s name_ is Princess Greymane doing here?”

Wrathion shrugged, extending his hands. He countered Anduin without answering, his words serene, but a slight crease between his thick brows betraying his commitment to them: “If you insist, we have no intention of dragging you, but I assure you the place my aunt intends to take you is far from pleasant.”

“Is that so?” Anduin heard himself snap. He leaned back, tightening his arms across his chest. “And I’m sure you know all about it. What are you, her—” he glanced around. Heat rose to the tips of his ears when he caught Wrathion’s eye, and his heart ached. He gave the ledge underneath him a kick.

“—her...her co-conspirator, or something?”

“Oh yes.” The king jumped at the sweetness of his drawl. Tearing his gaze from his toes, he gaped. Wrathion took a step forward, inclining his curly head. 

“And what an excellent plan it is, sticking you with her agents until I can _stage a rescue_ and run off with you in the opposite direction.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” the king answered, plainly. ‘You only brought the one,’ Katrana’s hiss had echoed down the torch-lined hall. ‘And he saw?’

Letting out a ragged breath, he lifted a hand, stopping the lord before he could reply. “I don’t know, Wrathion. I don’t know about any of this. What I saw...what even _are_ you? Some kind of mage?” 

“It will all be explained in time, my dear, but we don’t have ti—”

“Time? Wrathion, there has to be time for this. I can’t just _run off_ and—”

“As I have already explained,” Wrathion’s voice swelled, subsuming the king’s hoarse protest. Padding forward, he smoothed out his curls, and extended the same arm as before. “You have a choice: you can trust me, Princess Tess, and my agents, or you can wait here alone, and see what my aunt has planned. I highly discourage the latter, however, having been subject to her whims myself.”

Shooting Wrathion’s hand a warning glare, Anduin let out a breath. Without comment, he nudged it away, pausing, shifting, and, finally, without full consideration, easing his weight down on the step and pushing off. 

Pain shot up his legs as his feet made contact with the ground. He bounced in his shoes and pressed his fingers into the small of his back. Glancing first to Wrathion, and then to the unhooked horses, he pursed his lips. 

Over the tops of the trees, he could make out a red string of mountains, and behind them a golden sun sinking behind the highest crest. It had to be nearly four past noon, and from what he recalled from a trip he had taken in his youth, they were at least two hours from the Elwynn border. 

With a sigh, he lowered his gaze. His shoulders slumped, and he angled them slightly in Wrathion’s direction. The boy poked at the ocher earth with his boot’s sharp point. A red glow fell upon his cheeks, and on his lips twitching and quivering with the weight of some word he hesitated to say. 

Anduin swept back his sticky bangs and shot the horses another tentative glance. He stopped on Tess’ cool face; when she nodded, he let out the breath that had stuck in his throat. 

“All right,” he conceded.

Beside him, Wrathion snapped back to life, abandoning his drawing in the sand. “Excellent!” He quipped in his usual tenor, as he took a step around Anduin and strolled over to the smallest of the team: a black colt with a thick black mane. Tugging on his harness, he pulled himself up, swinging his left knee over and pressing his right foot into the stirrup.

Anduin lingered another moment, cursing himself for crashing, headfirst, into whatever trouble brewed between these mysterious Prestors. The sun’s gold light slipped from his cheeks, and in the shadows, his skin prickled. He rolled onto the pads of his toes. His clenched hands plunged into the pockets of his coat, and he trudged over to a gold maned horse, slightly taller than Wrathion’s, and with its saddle currently unoccupied. 

Letting out a low grunt as he mounted, he cast one last look towards the carriage, before turning his attention forward. Tess pulled into his line of vision. Wrathion walked to his left flank. The boy’s two guards trailed at his right on foot, but the king kept his eyes narrowed and his stare fixed on nothing but the road.

* * *

They rode for nearly an hour in silence, before swerving, abruptly, off the main road and onto a mountain pass. After pausing and tossing a plain cotton tunic and green wool cloak into Anduin’s hands, to be swapped for his dress jacket in the cleft between two boulders, they set off again with renewed vigor: the three women before them in an uncompromised line, and Wrathion sauntering at his side with an uneasy smile twitching at the corners of his lips. 

Anduin attempted question after question, but Wrathion countered each with a shrug of his shoulder or a non-committal remark. It wasn’t, of course, that the lord had any lack of comments to make; he chattered about the shape of the mountains, the remnants of Orcish camps dotting the canyon below, but whenever Anduin steered the topic back to their trip, or Katrana, or the unnatural red of his eyes, Wrathion muttered that it would all become clear in time.

“Please tell me, at least, where we’re headed,” Anduin urged when they stopped to water their horses at the crest of the pass. 

“North,” Wrathion stepped around him, his voice dipping and his belt rattling with the sway of his hips. 

“To your home, then?” The king pressed. Wrathion tilted his chin, but said nothing. Anduin lifted his gaze to where Tess leaned against a nearby tree, but she busied herself with tying her braid into a bun at the top of her head, barely paying him a glance with her cold, gray eyes.

Letting out a sigh and clenching his teeth behind tightly pursed lips, Anduin climbed back into his saddle. A deep shadow spread through the valley at their back, and a chill whipped the hem of his cloak. The next time Wrathion opened his mouth, Anduin wanted to snap. He settled, instead, for quickening his pace and pulling his mount in front of him. 

As they descended beyond the mountains to the south, the blackness of night rose up to greet them. The acrid stench of stale water and the buzz of insects painted a vivid picture of what hells lay to their left and their right, but the torch Tess held aloft caught little more than the occasional spray of grass or fallen log brushing the edges of the path. 

The darker it grew, the brighter Wrathion’s crimson eyes blazed. They flickered and danced and tugged Anduin’s stomach down to his core. It took everything in him not to stare, not to yield to the icy fingertips crawling up the back of his neck and prickling his scalp. 

Tangling his reins in his hands, he rocked his hips. Between the bobbing dark heads of Wrathion’s guards, he glimpsed a softer twinkle in the distance and fixed his thoughts upon it. Like the stars flickering between the branches overhead, electric lights disappeared and resurfaced with every dip and turn in the road.

The longer they traveled, the more the details took shape. Glimmers between the trees became strings laden with golden bulbs, and white plaster walls yielded to domed roofs breaching the velvet sky. 

The insects’ hum dimmed and made room for the crackle of fuses and the gentle lap of water over the sand. Wrathion’s horse huffed, and his hoofbeats stilled, as the lord called out from behind:

“Ah, here we are! Bogpaddle.”

With a ‘clink,’ he dismounted and strolled alongside the king. “If you need any assistance—”

“—I do not,” Anduin interrupted. 

He couldn’t make out the details of his face as he passed, but he caught his shoulders, outlined in red, falling an inch or two, and his curls swaying atop them. 

“All right,” Wrathion murmured. “In any case, my agents and I will lead the horses to the docks and secure transportation. In the meantime, feel free to look around and stretch your legs. It may be dark, but the Steamwheedle Cartel never sleeps. I will send for you when it is time to leave.”

Anduin opened his mouth, but at the last minute, decided he didn’t care to reply. He quickened past a guard and tucked his hands into his cloak. Relief set in as he put some distance between himself and the unfriendly caravan, but a sudden pop and crack off to his right snatched his calm away.

Drawing back his shoulders, he ducked into the first open door he stumbled upon, shifting to avoid the swaying hips of a wooden woman strumming a small guitar. He tripped back from her quivering grass skirt, and the edge of his hand struck the corner of a metal rack.

The loud twang drew a rustle from behind the counter. A goblin donning a blue floral shirt emerged, stuffing his fists in his eyes. “Eh, eh,” he muttered. 

A blush quickened to Anduin’s cheeks. “Are you closed? I’m s—”

“Nah, just a little after-dinner doze,” the goblin slurred, his ears springing with his head’s forceful shake. Blinking, he gazed up at Anduin. A toothy grin spread across his face. “Hey, no need to look so stiff. What are you, some kind of noble?” 

Anduin flustered, digging his hands into his pockets. His heart leapt, and, in the briefest of flashes, a thought materialized. He was a missing king! Should he raise an alarm, let the story spill from his lips, drive his heels into the sandy floor and insist he be returned to his people at once? Turn over his captors, and—

The goblin’s guffaw echoed off every wall, rattling the figures in the window to his left and ringing in the shot glasses on the rack to his right. Clenching his jaw, Anduin straightened. The shopkeeper’s eyes glittered in the lamplight. 

“Hey, you need a drink or something? If you’re trying to use the bathroom, I gotta ask that you make a purchase, some jerky or water or something. Boss’ orders.”

“Oh,” Anduin shook his head. The redness on his cheeks spread to the tips of his ears as he forced out a laugh. “Oh, no.”

“All right. Well, look around. If you need me, I’ll be right over there.” Without waiting for a reply, the goblin whirled on his toes and hustled to the glass case corner from which he had emerged, leaving Anduin to stand, arms limp at his sides, in the center of the room. 

He bounced, then grabbed his elbows beneath his cloak, eyes roving every flashy display for something worth walking over to. The shopkeepers at home had never granted him this kind of freedom. Stuck in his indecision, he clenched his fingers, wiped his palm on his sleeve, and bent his knees.

He shuffled into a corner out of view from the counter, more enticed by the promise of privacy than by the strings of shells hung on the facing wall. Even so, they quivered and crackled with the weight of his step. 

A voice called out. Anduin’s stomach sank. “Ah, you like those?” 

“Oh! Not—”

“Taken right off the beach here, they were,” the storekeeper went on, paying his protest no heed. He recited as if reading from a script: “The perfect gift for the girl you’ve got waiting back home. Pink coral for the blondes, or, if she’s a brunette, a nice black pearl or crimson—”

The strangled laugh that slipped from Anduin’s tongue cut off the pitch and sent the king’s own fingers flying to brush back his bangs. He didn’t need to peer around the corner to know the goblin was furrowing his brow. 

After a weighty pause, he tried again, with a hushed, and slightly more desperate quip, “Or for a lad, we’ve got the finest shot glasses and tumblers this side of Booty Bay, hand blown, with sand from the nearby…”

Anduin lost track of the rest. Numbness spread to his fingers. Chewing on his lower lip, he looked down, and his thoughts turned to Wrathion. A glass of whiskey clutched between his pointed nails, the rim catching a glimmer of red from his eyes as he stared down into it and smiled. 

Blood pounded in Anduin’s ears; nausea quickened in his stomach, but whether it was fear of Wrathion or _for_ him, he couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t even certain he wanted to know. 

With a slight shake of his dusty blond head, he abandoned the necklaces and made for an undisturbed rack of papers. Licking the tip of his finger, he rifled through an unassuming flyer with Lakeshire News emblazoned across half its front page. He moved on to a colorful series of coupons for inns in Stranglethorn Vale, and, underneath, caught the familiar old-fashioned typeface of the Stormwind Herald. 

He jostled it out, spreading open its pages. His eyes devoured the headlines, but despite the freshness of the print, the only mention of his name came in tiny font at the bottom of the announcement section. _With the blessing of his Majesty, King Anduin Wrynn,_ it read, _construction on the new baptismal pool will begin early this summer…_

Squeezing closed his eyes, Anduin folded the paper and set it aside. What lies had Katrana woven to excuse his absence? Bolvar, at least, had to see through them. 

‘He must,’ he insisted, as he took a step back. Tucking a hand back into his cloak, he glanced to the side. A colorful fan of cards on the edge of the counter caught his attention.

Swallowing around the tightness in his throat, he padded over, putting as little weight as possible into his steps. He craned his neck from a sketch of a sharp-toothed dragon to a stack of photos of goblin girls donning yellow bikinis. 

Without looking, he snatched one from the pile: a redhead with deep green skin lifting her head from the back of a motorbike to peek out between his fingers. Flipping it over, he grabbed a pen from beside the register, and scratched out a few simple words:

_15 High Street, Apartment B. Old Town District, Stormwind_

His right hand flew across the page, knuckles whitening with the tightness of his grip. He shot the left-hand side of the card a tentative look. Creasing his brow and arching his wrist to avoid smearing the address, he added, fast enough not to have time to rethink it, a short, agonizing _Wrathion._

Pursing his lips, he shoved the postcard across the counter. A pair of sharp eyes peered up at him, and softened, “Oh, great. Fifteen silver.”

The words sank to the pit of Anduin’s chest. He looked down at his cloak. His fingers itched to grab the glossy paper and run. “I—don’t—” he managed to force out before the shopkeeper shook his head. 

“Look, kid,” he stepped around the counter but kept his palm planted on the card. “I don’t know you, and I don’t know why you’re acting so funny, but rules are rules.”

Anduin’s lips tightened. He bit down in a hasty attempt to keep them from paling, and the goblin quirked a bald brow. “And I don’t know if you’re in some kind of trouble, or—or what, but as much as I’d love to help you, if my boss notices one of those cards has gone missing, and I haven’t…”

With another inhale, the king bowed his head and plunged his hands into his cloak. After patting down his tunic, his fingers slid to his pants, landing on a tiny bulge in the pocket on his left side. Dipping into it, they closed around a gold lapel, its grooves forming the head of a lion.

Snatching it, Anduin held out his hand, and mumbled, with a slight hitch in his breath, “Will this do?” 

The goblin froze, blinking. The blood drained from Anduin’s cheeks, but just when he decided he had made a mistake, he reached for it, holding it up to a nearby light, and grinning. 

“Yup, that will do it for sure.” The storekeeper exhaled. He bounced the pin in his palm. Relief smoothed the lines of his face as he looked up at Anduin and smiled. 

“I’ll get it sent right out for you, soon as I head home tonight.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, and here.” He let go of the card, straining over the counter to produce one of the tumblers he had spoken of earlier. Before the king could open his mouth, he had shoved it into his empty hands. Anduin stared into it at his bright face, and flushed. 

“Take this, too, for the lucky boy. Or use it yourself while you’re here. It’s really the least I can do.”

A soft footfall at the threshold drew their attention. Tess slipped past the wooden musician, lacing her hands behind her back. When her gaze fell upon Anduin’s green wool cloak, the lines around her mouth softened, and she whispered, “Hey.”

Anduin pivoted, hugging the glass to his chest. “Oh. Is something wrong?”

“I think it’s about time to go. Please come.”

It was the gentlest thing she had ever said to him, and something about its ring dispelled any will he had to protest. After a final nod to the storekeeper, he tucked the tumbler under his arm and followed her into the darkened center of town and out to the water. 

A small steamboat waited at the end of the dock. Off to its left on the shore, Wrathion gestured wildly from one guard, who held the reins of the horses, to the other, who was in the process of tearing a black taffeta gown from the bag she had carried on her back. 

Red light no longer leaked from Wrathion’s eyes, though Anduin could have sworn for a fleeting moment he caught a glimpse of it. The lord strained onto his toes and puffed out his chest. In front of him, a human man with a thick beard crossed his arms. 

Tess shot Anduin a glance. Her eyes twinkled, and she lifted her voice to call, “My lord?” 

Wrathion pirouetted. “Ah, here! All right, then, that’s all of them. Come, my friends, all aboard.”

“But we haven’t settled on the price,” the human snapped. 

With a flick of his wrist, Wrathion departed, waving to his guards as he called, “Left, Right, if you please. Tina? Andrew?” 

Anduin’s tongue stuck to the floor of his mouth when he realized, with a jolt, that Wrathion was referring to him. Drawing back his shoulders, he looked to Tess. She shrugged, and he replied, “I’m not sure we can just—?”

“Oh, we can. We absolutely can. I’ve paid this Garret a fair price, and I’ve told him where he can collect his boat. Now, come along, please. We really must get going.”

Driving his weight into the soles of his boots, Anduin crossed his arms, and lifted his gaze to the sky. Over the ocean stretched a trail of stars, glimmering across the firmament, brighter and with greater variation in hue than he had ever seen from his window in Stormwind. 

Beyond, water lapped at cliffs rising sharply to mountains, and over them...the north, he supposed. He glanced from Tess, to the boat, and to Wrathion lingering in between, tapping his pointed shoe on the planks and craning his neck towards the center of town. 

The tacky postcard would find Mathias Shaw by noon, he hoped, and with any luck, it would be in his regent’s hands by sundown. 

He exhaled and directed a silent prayer to the Light. His boots hit the dock, and the hand clenching the goblin’s gift tightened under his cloak. 

Without paying Wrathion a glance, he stepped aboard the boat and took a seat at the far side of the stern. Closing his eyes, he focused on the lap of water against steel and the smoothness of the glass rim under the pad of his thumb.

* * *

Sunlight streamed from the cabin window to the wadded up cloak Wrathion had stuffed under his curly hair. Blinking, he stared up at the ceiling, rolled onto his left arm, and pushed himself up to sitting. After rubbing his eyes, he did a quick scan of the room. His agents had heaped their bags in a pile to the right of the door. On the bench backing up to the bridge, Tess sat with her knees bent towards her chest and a book spread open on top of them.

She licked her finger and turned the page, glancing up at the soft ‘thump’ of Wrathion’s boots hitting the floor. She tilted her chin; her lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile, and he nodded at her before turning and making for the sack containing his personal effects. 

He plunged in and nudged his spare undershirt to the side. The tips of his fingers grazed the jagged flowers crowning the comb Anduin had gifted him, but settled, instead, on the cracked bone one he had brought from home. He pulled it out, sectioning his hair and working its teeth through his ringlets. 

As he stared at his reflection in the glass, his thoughts turned to another morning, another flutter in the pit of his stomach as he sat at his boudoir in the Keep. Less than a week had passed since the tournament, yet the quivering in his wrist as he pinned back his curls that day might as well have been a dream, half-forgotten after waking. 

Fighting to shake off the rest of it, he set the comb aside on a fold-out table and twisted his hair between his fingers. He smoothed out his brows, rubbed his red eyes on the backs of his hands, and straightened his collar. Once the man reflected in the window resembled something he could be satisfied with, he dropped his comb into his bag and unzipped Left’s, withdrawing a paper package bound with twine. 

He tucked it under his arm and rose. When he approached the door, he caught a few blond wisps peeking over the ledge at its side. Anduin leaned against the glass with his arms crossed, exactly how they had left him the night before, and his eyes fixed on the trail of bubbles stretching out from the rudder. 

Wrathion crackled the door and angled his shoulder to slip through. Despite his efforts to ease it silently closed behind him, the faint squeak of its hinges drew Anduin’s stare. His brows rose. 

The dragon bowed his head, and quipped, a little too quickly, “I thought you might be hungry.”

Anduin pursed his lips in a line. His eyes darted to the package under Wrathion’s arm, and he pulled his cloak up towards his chin. “Oh—” His voice leapt, and after an exhale that ruffled the fabric around him, he added, at an evener pitch, “I..am, yes. If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” the dragon tugged out the bundle and offered it to him, staring past his face to the sun where it glimmered on the waves. 

After the weight left his palms, he whirled on his heels and made for the cabin door, but a voice, low and tentative, cut him off, murmuring, “Wrathion. Stay, please.”

How could he refuse? 

On his inhale, he walked to the railing opposite Anduin. The king plucked at the knot holding the package together, wiggling loose the twine and spreading open the paper on the bench beside him. A hunk of salami rolled free, followed by a white wedge of cheese. He glanced from it to Wrathion and back, his lips twitching as they worked out a reply.

The dragon stopped him, shaking his head as he lied, “I’m not hungry, my dear. Really, it’s all yours.”

“Are you sure?” Anduin’s eyes narrowed.

“Absolutely. I had a bit of dried fruit before bed last night, after all. This one is for you.” 

Anduin remained unmoved for a moment, but, after smoothing back his bangs and bending over to set something down on the floor with a ‘clink,’ he angled his knees towards the food. 

He slipped out his other hand to pick up the meat, bringing it to his lips and nibbling at the edge. After a taste, his eyes widened, and he tore into it, ripping off a sizable chunk and chewing with a ferocity unbecoming of his station, but which pleased the dragon, nonetheless. 

He rested his hands on the rail at his sides and breathed in a briny gust of wind that ruffled his goatee and lingered at the tip of his tongue. Anduin swallowed audibly. He flicked at a chipped spot of paint with the tips of his nails. 

The waves lapped against the boat behind him, and the rudder hummed at a steady beat. 

Licking his fingertips, Anduin asked without lifting his gaze from his breakfast, “This is from Trias’ Cheese, isn’t it?”

“I believe so, yes,” Wrathion replied. “My escorts picked it up on their way out of town yesterday morning.”

“I’ve always loved their cheese…”

“I am glad to hear it. Please, eat up. I am afraid you might not find the food in Revantusk quite so amiable, if you aren’t accustomed to trollish cuisine.” 

“So that’s where you’re taking me?” The bench under the human creaked as he leaned forward. “To the _trolls_?”

Wrathion straightened. His tongue clicked between his teeth, and he fumbled with the sash of his leather tunic, smoothing out a bump. “Oh, no. Titans, no, absolutely not.”

“Then why did you—?”

“Because the river that runs past my father’s home doesn’t reach this side of the sea. We will have to travel a day on foot, I’m afraid, or perhaps ride a wyvern, if we can find anything left among us worth trading, after that dreadful human picked us clean.”

“How do you know? Have you been this way before?”

“No, but I—” Wrathion paused. Shifting into the corner, he gazed towards the shore, to the deep ocher mountains climbing into the clouds. His chest tightened, but he drew back his shoulders, and continued, choosing every word:

“But my father and I do business with many classes and cultures of people: goblin merchants, Frostwolves, forest trolls, even the odd human princess.” He nodded towards the cabin, but if Tess heard, she made no attempt to reply. With a shrug and a flick of his wrist, he went on, unabated, “The north, you’ll find, is very different from the world you are used to, but I think it will be to your benefit, at least until we decide what to do with dear Auntie...”

The bench squeaked again, Anduin’s cloak rustling about his ankles as he set down the cheese and crossed his legs. He propped up his elbows on his knees and clenched his hands in his lap, his blue eyes flashing in the morning sun. “What to do? You don’t mean—?”

“I’m not quite sure what I mean, to be perfectly honest,” Wrathion admitted, with a pang in his chest. “Which is why I wish to consult my father, regroup, discuss our next move. I am sorry again for whisking you away so suddenly, but I knew I had to act quickly. If you had reached my Uncle Nefarian’s hall, I hate to think…”

Sweat prickled at the nape of his neck. Reaching back, he tousled his curls, then gave his collar a tug to loosen it slightly. Cool air slipped down his back, and a small sigh rose to his lips. 

Anduin stared down into his bunched-up wool cloak, brows furrowed, and fingers plucking at a stray thread. A long silence set in between them, the bobbing of the boat and the hum of the rudder bleeding together. Finally, the king cleared his throat. “What are you, Wrathion?” He asked. His question hung heavy in the air. 

The blood drained from Wrathion’s cheeks, sucked down into the hole that grew in the pit of his stomach with every silent moment. His hands fell from the bar at his sides, clenching, instead, at the small of his back. His crimson gaze flicked to the floor. 

“A...dragon, actually,” he heard himself mutter. When he glanced up, it was into eyes wide enough to swallow him, flashing with the glimmer of a strained smile.

“You’re joking,” the king forced out. Wrathion shook his head.

“No, my dear. I’m afraid I am not.”

“But you’re—” Anduin’s expression crumbled, gentle bemusement yielding to desperation, words weathered through a hitch in his breath. “But I’ve seen dragons, Wrathion. In books, and on tapestries, and that..that statue of Saint Jurgis in Cathedral Square. I know what a dragon looks like, Wrathion, and you’re not—”

Leaning back, Wrathion chased away every image that rose to his mind, determined not to think too hard on the content of those statues and tapestries. He unclenched his jaw and swallowed the lump that crawled from his chest to his throat. His voice strained under the weight of his words. “I am, but I am quite young: younger, I think, than you may be considering.”

Anduin’s cloak slid off his shoulders. His expression started to unwind, furrowed brows parting and tight lips drooping at their corners. He let out an audible breath, and murmured, as he pulled his foot into his lap, “You were born two years ago, weren’t you?” The edge in his tone had softened, but it hadn’t warmed. 

Wrathion unlaced his fingers and swept a stray curl behind his ear. “I was, yes,” he admitted, and hurried to add, “But I assure you, it is not what you think. I have aged rather differently, and never lived my life as a child. I was born to be roughly the same age as you, in body and also in mind. I hope you understand—”

“—I just want to know, Wrathion,” Anduin cut in. “How much of this has been an act. Everything you’ve done, what you’re doing now...Why are you here, and has any of it, _anything at all_ —” the king’s voice cracked. 

Pushing himself from the rail, the dragon took a step forward and sank down onto his knees. Ignoring the roughness of the wood beneath him, he relaxed and rested his palms on his thighs, open in Anduin’s direction. Their eyes met. 

He explained, “Anduin, it has never been my intent to deceive you, despite all of my aunt’s best efforts. The person you met at the Keep was me, and all I have said to you, I have said in earnest. I understand why you might question me now, and it is well within your right. But I promise, I have never wanted to lie to you.”

“But you did. You did lie,” Anduin pointed out, looking past Wrathion’s face to the sea. The dragon’s stomach tightened, but he breathed through it, giving the human the space he needed to speak. 

“This whole time, you were there, in the Keep, deceiving everyone with this disguise, hiding your glowing red eyes, and why? I don’t understand it, Wrathion. The first time we were alone, you could have told me, and we could’ve made this right. I don’t understand why you didn’t! It hurts, Wrathion. It really does.”

“I know.” Wrathion nodded. His curls swayed against his cheeks, but he didn’t feel them, not with the chill that dripped from his head to his back. Shuddering, he rolled his shoulders and studied the tattered corner of Anduin’s cloak. 

“So I guess this means you’re all dragons, then? Lady Katrana, her brother, and your father, even, and wherever you’re taking me—”

“Yes.” Wrathion closed his eyes. “The entire Prestor House, in fact. We are all black dragons, all direct descendants of Deathwing himself, scattered across Azeroth to continue his legacy. Lady Katrana is a broodmother called Onyxia, Deathwing’s daughter, and very much the kind of dragon you have imagined. My father, Fahrahian, as well.”

“I really wish this were a joke.”

“I—understand, my dear.” He dropped his chin, studying the belts striping his leather jerkin. A shadow from the mountains passed over their boat, and, with it, a gust of air that chilled the tip of Wrathion’s nose. It was as deep and hopeless as the darkness that tended to ebb at his thoughts during times like this, but thankfully, it didn’t close in.

Instead, it sank into the stream of bubbles behind them, chased down by the shimmering sun. The only eyes watching him now were Anduin’s, wide and cold, darting from his lips to his hands and back. He forced himself to gaze into them; the red light from his own caught on his blown out pupils. 

“And I am afraid there is more, and what I have to say now might be even more difficult to hear.”

“Just, just tell me, okay? Whatever it is. I need to know.”

Wrathion sucked down a breath. When he exhaled, a wisp of smoke curled from between his pursed lips. Anduin’s brows arched. 

Wrathion shirked from his stare, and whispered, “My aunt, Onyxia, she wishes to control the throne. That has been her only goal since coming to Stormwind. She stoked the riots that led to your mother’s death, and when your father failed to show her any affection, she wiped his memory and sent him away.”

The air shifted with every word that left his tongue. The bench groaned under Anduin’s weight, and, as his hand froze against the paper that had held his breakfast, his face paled to a porcelain white. His chin quivered. 

Wrathion’s throat tightened and tugged him into a hunch. 

Anduin muttered, “So, you knew. This whole time?”

“Yes.”

“You knew she murdered my parents.”

“Yes.”

“Wrathion—”

The door to their left squealed on its hinges. Tess slipped through the crack and emerged on the deck with a book in her hands. When she came upon them, her white cheeks pinkened, and her eyes sought out the curled tips of Wrathion’s boots tucked behind him. 

“Excuse me,” she stepped to the rail and turned towards the front of the ship. Anduin’s bangs whipped his brow as he jerked his head to catch her gaze. 

“Tess?” He called. Stopping, she lowered the book by her side, still hesitating to look at either of them directly. After a moment, she opened her mouth, but the king cut her off with a short “please, can I ask you a question?” 

She nodded, the tip of her bound-up braid swaying against her neck. “All right.”

Anduin’s shoulders rose, and he tipped his knees away from Wrathion in her direction. His voice leapt in pitch when he asked, “Why are you here, exactly? Not to be rude. I’m just...trying to make sense of this.”

The blush faded from her cheeks. Pivoting on her heel, she leaned back against the rail and crossed her arms. Her gray eyes met Wrathion’s, and she inclined her head in his direction. “He came to me the night you were taken and told me he needed my help. I owe a debt to his father, and he has promised to settle it when we arrive at Ravenholdt.”

“I see.” 

Wrathion glanced between them, the corners of his lips turning up into an awkward grin. Giving his sleeves a tug, he cut in, at what he hoped was his normal pitch, “Ah, yes, and my promise still stands, of course. My father supplies Princess Greymane with weapons and traps, and has done so since before I was born. She’s one of our strongest allies.”

“So you know what they are, then?” Anduin quipped, keeping his gaze upon her. 

She shrugged, readjusting the book in her arms and glancing over her shoulder to the sea. “I know they aren’t human. The dragon thing is new to me, but honestly, I never asked.”

Anduin’s jaw fell. Wrathion let out another smoky puff, shifting back on his hands and untucking his knees to relieve the strain he had placed upon them. He stretched and rolled his ankles, but neither human paid him a glance. 

Tess tilted her ear against his shoulder, admitting, in an unwavering tone, “The worgen threat has been quickening towards my father’s borders, but while he hides in his hall with my brother, Lord Fahrad has listened to me and assisted. Whatever they’ve done, I had nothing to do with it. I just wanted to help my people.”

“It’s all right,” Anduin assured her. His voice softened as he regarded her with a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry I stopped you, and thank you, anyways, for trying to help. I’ll make sure you aren’t blamed for what’s happening here.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.” With that, she straightened and headed to the front of the boat with her book tucked under her arm. Wrathion parted his lips to add a farewell, but his tongue stuck to the back of his bottom teeth.

As her footsteps grew fainter, the hum of the rudder swelled. Running his nails along the side of his boot, Wrathion waited for the king to address him. With every splash of the waves or hiss of Anduin’s jagged exhales, his insides tightened, tangling up in his core. 

A gull cawed from a cliff overhead. Looking up, Anduin muttered, faintly, “I want to see.”

“See what, my dear?” Wrathion scooted closer to make sure he had heard him correctly. 

“Your true form. What I saw fly out my window. I want to see it again, to make sure…” 

“All right.” Wrathion closed his eyes. His nails clicked against his collar as he loosened it, allowing the breeze to pass over the tight garment he wore beneath. “If you are certain this is what you want—”

“It is.” The king’s blond head bobbed. 

The dragon couldn’t deny him. Drawing back his shoulders, he unfurled his disguise; skin hardened to scale, and his form plummeted to the deck, shrinking, and curling in. His claws dug into the weathered wood, splintering it at its seams with their sharp points. 

He crawled to the ends of Anduin’s cloak and lifted his tiny snout. His tail tapped, unconsciously, against the floor behind him. The king blanched, sinking his teeth into his pale lower lip. 

His brows knit together. Wrathion’s heart clenched in his draconic chest, and his slit pupils sucked in under the king’s scrutiny. He thought he caught him wrinkling his nose, and he wanted to scurry off the side of the deck. But then Anduin turned, wrapping up the remnants of his cheese, and patting the bench beside him with templed fingers. 

“Come closer,” he offered. 

Wrathion unfurled his wings, beating them once, twice, until his talons brushed the edge of the seat. He stumbled forward on impact, scratching the wood to find purchase. Desperate to hide his face, he arched his back.

The bench under him creaked, and the side of a clammy finger grazed the soft scales between his nostrils. 

The hand quickly withdrew, leaving Wrathion longing to squirm into it, but even more aware of the strain lining Anduin’s face as he stared down at him. After another flutter of his wings, he tucked them in and leaned against the wall to pull his talons in to his abdomen. 

Smaller and less assuming, he craned his neck and met the human’s stunned stare. For a moment, neither moved nor made a sound. Then, the creases on the king’s forehead smoothed, and he flexed his fingers in the space between them, before resting them in the gap between Wrathion’s horns.

Unable to stop the rumble that built in his chest, nor to keep his spine from rising to their point of contact, he tilted his chin and squeezed closed his red eyes. Every muscle melted under Anduin’s palm slipping down the crest on his back. His heart pounded. Euphoria flooded his veins, rippling under his scales and racing to the tips of his claws.

How long had it been since he had felt someone touch this body? Had he ever? He realized with a start that he couldn’t recall a single caress or curious brush of his wings, not from anyone except Salome, and even then…

The hand withdrew. His back arched to seek one final pet that never came. Clearing his throat, he looked up, his forked tongue darting along his sharp teeth. Anduin clenched his hands in his lap and squared his shoulders with the back of the bench.

“I think...I would like a drink,” he said.

With a click of his claws, Wrathion turned to follow his stare, watching a clump of foam bob on the waves. “There is some wine in the cabin, if you’d like. It may be a bit early, however—” 

“Wine would be great, thank you.” 

Wrathion nodded, putting space between them and shifting into his mortal form. Rolling his shoulders and readjusting his jerkin and belt, he crossed in front of the king and ducked into the cabin.

After a few moments of fumbling with their bags, he produced a green bottle of red wine, uncorking it, and stepping back into the sunlight. When he glanced to his left, he found Anduin waiting with his cloak folded at his side and a tumbler clutched between shaking fingers. 

Inclining his head in the king’s direction, he filled his glass to the rim, then took a tentative step back to the wall. Anduin pressed the drink to his lips and sipped, his chest rising with the force of his swallow. 

Passing the bottle from one hand to the other, Wrathion shifted his weight. Anduin tossed back his head and downed another gulp. This time, he lowered the glass to his lap and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. 

Wrathion shielded his eyes with his palm, rubbing his thumb and index finger between his brows in a last ditch attempt to soothe his mounting headache. It didn’t abate, even when he pressed in hard enough to see spots. Resigned to the pain, he shoved back his curls and slumped against the door. 

At the wood’s crackle, Anduin straightened, glancing in Wrathion’s direction, then holding out the hand grasping his drink. “Here,” he offered, carefully. The dragon readied the bottle to top him off, but then he caught Anduin’s smile, and the tension in his wrist unwound. 

“You can have some, too, if you want.”

“Are you sure?” Wrathion quirked a brow.

Nodding, Anduin passed the glass into his free hand. When he brought it to his lips, he noted the king’s soft scent lingering on its rim. Lowering his red gaze, he sipped. A rich, fruity bitterness flooded his mouth, warming his cheeks, and spreading down to undo the knot in the pit of his stomach. 

The bench at his side creaked when Anduin rose and walked towards the railing. The sun silhouetted his golden hair like a halo, and Wrathion stared, drinking down his wine in silence, listening to the lap and lull of waves against the side of the ship.


	4. Part IV

With every step Anduin took up the sharp incline wedged between two mountains, the ache in his calves swelled, spreading first to his knees, then to the soles of his feet. He rolled back his shoulders and jostled the sack strapped to his waist, but neither adjustment brought him relief. 

The trees in the foothills were barren, with no blossoms to dot their spindly branches, and the wind crackled and whipped them about with greater ferocity the higher they climbed. It prickled the tips of Anduin’s ears and bit his nose, but it did nothing to dry the sweat accumulating at the base of his neck. 

His traveling companions did little to help matters, either. Wrathion’s guards took the rocks two at a time, and Tess sprung to match their strides, barely pressing down on her toes before flying forward another few paces. Wrathion trailed them at a distance, pausing after every few boulders to glance over his shoulder, but Anduin wasn’t fooled. 

No matter how many jumps he made, the rise and fall of his chest remained steady, and the color and sheen of his dark skin unchanged. The concerned look on his face never wavered, sending blood rushing to Anduin’s already pink cheeks. Clenching his nails into his palms, the king fixed his eyes on the ground. He furrowed his brow and sought out the smoothest patches of dirt. His ragged breath stuck in his throat, and he swallowed. 

In the distance, the gentle pad of Wrathion’s boots picked up again, and didn’t falter until they came upon a plateau that led into the mouth of a rocky cave. Left and Right leaned against a wall with one of the dragon’s packs unbuttoned on the ground between them. He knelt and plunged his arm in to the elbow, rummaging out a palm-sized object he tucked away in the pocket of his jerkin. 

On the opposite edge of the path, Tess uncorked the skin she had filled in the river that morning and took a swig. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. When Anduin crested the hill and stopped to rest his hands on his knees, she approached, holding the open bag in front of her. Water swished and gurgled with every step. 

“Drink,” she commanded, with no hint of question.

The king’s face darkened, and, without thinking, he held up his hand. In the moments it took to force air into his lungs, she pushed it closer. By the time he found his voice, he had decided not to refuse.

Cool liquid spilled onto his tongue, assuaging the burning ache at the back of his throat. He gulped and splashed a few drops into his hand to scrub off his sweat and smooth out his hair. 

Wrathion brushed past them with a nod and ducked into the yawning rock maw, scratching and tapping the wall. The click of his nails against stone dimmed as his red glow faded into the shadows, and he called back, his high voice reverberating from somewhere deep within, “Ah, yes, that’s the last of the traps! Please, follow me. The way should be safe for now.”

Something tugged at the pit of Anduin’s stomach, and the chill that crawled up his spine subsumed his flush. Whether it was the mention of “traps” or the “for now” that shook him, he couldn’t be sure, but he tripped over his feet in his rush to plunge into the blackness. 

Once inside, he realized the lightless patch in the tunnel lasted ten paces or less before the darkness ahead of them grayed. Sunlight streamed in through the rocks lining the mouth at the other side, tumbling over Wrathion’s curly head where he waited with his arms crossed loosely over his chest. 

Anduin forced a smile. The dragon tilted his chin and stepped to the side, making room for the rest of the party. After blinking and rubbing his eyes, he emerged next to a well-tended patch of cauliflower. 

Wrathion threw out his hands, gesturing towards the wood-and-stucco manor casting its shadow on the path beyond. “Here we are! Ravenholdt, my father’s estate.”

“His estate is protected by traps?” Anduin quirked a brow, though he wasn’t particularly surprised. 

“Of course,” Wrathion chuckled. “We can’t afford to have locals showing up unannounced, but, even so, we’re never without our share of visitors, as I’m sure Princess Greymane can tell you.”

Anduin shot Tess a glance, but found her eyes fixed on the building ahead. Her forehead creased between her dark brows, and she clipped her flask back on her belt. When she straightened, she stood an inch or so taller than before. Anduin’s jaw tightened, the tug in his chest yanking down with a stronger grip. 

He shifted his weight when a man with ginger hair stepped out of the door. 

“Wrathion?” He called, cupping his hand over his eyes. “Back so soon?”

“Ah, father!” The boy replied. With the jump in his pitch, the bushes surrounding the small farm rustled, and, before Anduin could make sense of the sound, figures started to materialize. Each clad in black, most with their faces partially obscured. 

The king strained on his toes, twisting left, right, and back to the scene playing out in front of him. His heart leapt to his throat and pounded in his ears in his rush to figure out where to look. He faltered when Wrathion’s father approached. 

“Is that—?” He squinted, stopping, and bending forward at the waist. “Tess, what a pleasant surprise.”

She nodded, her braid tumbling over her shoulder. “Lord Fahrad.” 

“Let me guess, my son caused some kind of stir at the court, and begged you to help him flee.”

“Stir—” Wrathion stepped between them, his arms unfurling at his sides “—is such a strong word. If anyone caused a _stir_ , it was your dear sister. Tess agreed to assist in my flight, and for that, I have promised to settle her debt to the manor. I’m sure I speak for both of us when I offer her our gratitude.”

“Is that so?” The older man blinked. He glanced between them with steely eyes, but beneath his well-groomed mustache, his lips twitched with the faintest hint of a smile. 

Feeling like a spectator at a party to which he hadn’t been invited, Anduin took a step back and fumbled with his cloak. He looked to the edge of the garden where he’d last seen Wrathion’s guards, but they were gone, like ravens chased away by the thud of approaching footsteps.

Wondering what had become of them, Anduin failed to notice the drop in their conversation until the lord’s stare drifted in his direction. He quickly inclined his head in greeting.

Fahrad’s lips parted, his leather-clad figure freezing in place. Anduin sucked down a breath, brushed back his bangs, and waited, bouncing on his toes, for someone, anyone, to say something. 

Finally, the older man whipped his head in his son’s direction. His lips contorted in a scowl. “Wrathion…” He warned. 

The boy slid back into the shadow of a nearby tree, leaving nothing between the king and the older dragon. “Ah, yes, father, by the way, I was just about to tell you—”

“Tell me this isn’t who I think it is. Wrathion.”

An exclamation escaped Wrathion’s lips, but Fahrad persisted, taking another step forward. “Wrathion, tell me—”

“I’m sorry.” Anduin laced his hands in front of his waist and plunged into a bow. Words tumbled from his lips, faster with every step the rogue took in his direction. “I don’t mean to cause you any trouble. There were some problems back at the Keep with Lady Katrana, and Wrathion— well—”

“Your sister tried to kidnap him,” Wrathion blurted out. “She intended to send him off to Nefarian. I did what needed to be done, but I assure you, Anduin had no part in—”

“That’s,” Fahrad replied, his tone cool, “Quite enough, Wrathion.” He didn’t pay his son a glance. Stopping in front of the king, he nodded, lowering his gaze to his boots. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed, smoother, even. He addressed him as if no one else was listening. 

“Your Majesty, I apologize for my son’s rash behavior. Consider yourself a guest in my hall until we sort this out. Myrokos,” he called to one of the men who had stepped out of the shadows: a quel’dorei by the looks of the narrow blue eyes casting their glow upon his mask. “Take this boy upstairs and bring him food and clean water. Tess, make yourself at home. My son and I have much to discuss.”

With his final declaration, Fahrad turned on his heels, moving to Wrathion’s side. Sharp creases lined even sharper eyes, and when the young dragon smiled up at him, he bristled and stepped in his way.

Anduin opened his mouth, but a thin hand on his shoulder cut him off. After one last curious look in the Prestors’ direction, he yielded to Myrokos’ touch and walked with him to the front step. They passed over the threshold, circled around a long table, and took a staircase up to an open landing. A second set of steps wound into a narrow tower that opened into a room lined with warped yellow windows. 

A small bed stood tucked between a bookshelf and an end table, simple in its design, but heaped with opalesce pillows embroidered with gold. The scent of patchouli lingered in the air, tickling Anduin’s nostrils and bathing him in a haze. 

He undid his belt and placed it on a purple rug, before wandering towards the corner of the bed. Every step he took was a measured one. “This—is Wrathion’s room, isn’t it?” He inquired, though he already knew the answer. He also knew that he should offer to sleep somewhere else, but before he could, the door shut behind him and left him to his thoughts. 

He pursed his lips, clenching his teeth and dragging his fingers along the bed’s wooden footboard. He leaned his knee on the mattress and reached over it to crack open one of the windows. Cool air seeped in through the gap, and if he strained, he could make out the gentle lapping of water and the rustle of needles from the trees below. 

In the distance, a bird cawed. On one of the floors below, a board squeaked, a cat meowed, and two voices hissed and snarled like beasts. It took a moment for Anduin to realize that he was hearing Wrathion, spilling out words in a tongue far less gentle and musical than the one he used on Anduin.

_Draconic._ He noted with a frown. Sinking onto the bed, he leaned back and listened with his hands clenched in his lap. Fahrad’s rumbling response sank down to his core, shaking him, draining the blood from his cheeks. It took a few desperate breaths to chase away the shiver that crawled up his spine at the sound. 

Rolling onto his side, the king buried his head in Wrathion’s pillows. He inhaled their scent, and imagined the dragon’s long nails clicking against the fabric as he poked a gold thread in and out. Like the room, and the manor, and the growls and snaps shaking the room below, they filled him with awe and dread in equal measure. 

Cursing himself for whatever it was he had stumbled into, but too tired and sore to swing his legs back off the bed, Anduin scooted against the wall, shoving the pillows out of his way, and hugging his knees to his chest. 

Myrokos returned a few moments later with a tray of food and a basin, and he mumbled a curt—but polite—thank you. When the door opened, the voices grew louder. When it shut, they faded back to a prickly hiss.

With a sigh, Anduin squeezed closed his eyes. He didn’t think sleep would come, but as soon as he forced himself into darkness it swept over him, carrying him off to the fighting grounds at his Keep, to Wrathion’s slender body pressed against his, to the rich aroma of his cologne tickling his nostrils, and his curls bouncing against Anduin’s cheek when he leaned in for a kiss.

* * *

 _Meow._ The cat’s whines grew louder and more insistent with every squeak of the stairs beneath his feet. When he rounded the bend, a small, patchwork face and pair of bright green eyes greeted him from the lip of the final step.

His expression softened, and, ignoring the twinge of pain in the back of his legs, he knelt and held out his fingers. “Hey, little one,” he whispered. “You’re much smaller than you sounded upstairs, you know.”

The cat sniffed, then licked, then nuzzled her face into his cupped palm, before slinking to the side and regarding him with a searching look. A smile twitched at the corners of his lips, and he guessed, gently, “I’m not Wrathion, sorry. I’ve just stayed in his room tonight. But when I find him, I’ll let him know where you are, okay?”

The cat meowed. Anduin’s gaze drifted past her ears to the hall at the top of the landing. The whole manor felt empty, creaking and groaning with every shift of his weight, dim despite the bright morning sun he had glimpsed through his window. Reaching for the handrail, he pulled himself up and stepped around the cat. 

Once he emerged from the stairs, he caught a snippet of conversation echoing from the entryway. Careful not to place too much weight on his feet, he shuffled towards a nearby window and peeked out. In the courtyard below, Wrathion stood with a green vial clutched in one hand. The other gestured grandly in the space in front of him, drawing the eye of two tall men in burlap cloaks.

He couldn’t make out the words, but he could tell the men were laughing by the way their cloaks trembled and swayed about their knees. With a step to the side, Wrathion continued his spiel. The glass in his hand shimmered in the sun and, though the words themselves remained unintelligible, when his voice jumped, its musical lilt tinked through the empty house. 

Resting his arm on the windowsill, Anduin watched, his smile threatening to widen but his chest tightening when he recalled where he was and who he was with. Did these merchants with their obscured faces realize who Wrathion was, or had they, too, been strung along thinking this was a normal house filled with ordinary residents?

Had Tess been given what was promised to her, or was she imprisoned somewhere in this house, captive to whatever scheme the Prestors had going? 

The grin froze on his lips, hanging there until the muscles around his jaw started to ache. Below, Wrathion tapped his foot and pointed at something out of sight. Should he tiptoe downstairs, look for a back door, maybe try to get word out to Alterac, or Gilneas…

A floorboard creaked. Expecting the cat, he pivoted on his right heel, only to find Fahrad waiting at the corner of his knotted rug. 

Anduin lowered his gaze and wiped the frown from his face. The dragon approached, nodding towards the window, and musing, “He’s really something, isn’t he?” An easy smile surfaced beneath his mustache. 

Heat rose to Anduin’s cheeks, and he turned, putting the window behind him. “Wrathion?” He asked, knowing full well the answer. 

Fahrad tilted his chin, his ginger hair swaying. “Things haven’t been the same since he got here. For one, my business is booming. He has a charm about him I don’t understand.”

‘Since he got here.’ Anduin’s brows rose. Cupping his hands at his waist, he straightened. The question tumbled from his lips before he had time to consider it. “What do you mean ‘since he got here?’ Isn’t he your son?” 

His blush brightened when he heard the words hit the air. For what it was worth to Anduin, Fahrad’s expression didn’t falter. He shook his head once and stepped to the side, propping an elbow against the sill at his right. His sharp eyes flicked towards the window, and he lowered his voice. 

“Wrathion’s mother, Nyxondra, was my consort,” he explained, staring past Anduin’s left ear. “My older brother took her before our first clutch, and, a few months later, sent me back Wrathion’s egg in her place. I’m unsure what happened to her, or if she lives. Wrathion, I think, remembers, but I can’t get him to speak of it.”

“And you don’t...resent him for it?” Anduin’s voice dropped on the final note. 

In the courtyard, Wrathion had dragged out a table laden with tubes. As he leaned down and dropped something into the largest of them, the king caught a glimpse of a brown-gold eye beneath a drawn black brow. 

His heart clenched as he recalled those eyes, eyes he hadn’t seen glimmer since Stormwind, brightening as their bodies pressed together in the arch overlooking the lake. 

Beside him, Fahrad paused for a moment and shook his head, his hand tightening around the rounded edge of the sill. “He didn’t do it,” he stated, definitively. “It isn’t his fault.” 

Wrenching his eyes off Wrathion, the king turned until his shoulders squared with the older dragon. At the change in his position, something Anduin couldn’t quite identify flickered across Fahrad’s features. The lines creasing his forehead smoothed, and the olive hue of his irises deepened a shade or two. 

Anduin parted his lips and readied another question, but Fahrad cut him off, shrugging his shoulder to his ear. “I don’t agree with much of what my family does. That’s why I’m up here, by myself, making my own way, not off cavorting with human nobles and the like, no offense.”

“But you did send Wrathion,” the king pointed out.

“Sure,” Fahrad conceded. “I told him to go be himself, fully expecting he’d be sent back the moment he stepped into court. He could return unburdened, and maybe my sister would leave us in peace. Not that I’m unhappy with how things turned out, of course. When I got his letter—” 

The rogue closed his mouth. His fingers flew to his face, smoothing the corners of his mustache. Anduin’s heart fluttered; he had to will his neck from craning for another glimpse of Wrathion’s curls bouncing in the morning sun. 

Clearing his throat, and withdrawing his arm from the ledge to wipe his palm against his leather pants, Fahrad continued, slower and with greater weight given to his words, “I was pleased. I’m happy the two of you hit it off, and I’m happy you know the truth about him. He’s a good kid. Don’t let my sister’s wickedness taint your view of him.”

The king blinked, unlacing his arms to slide them to cup his elbows. Averting his face from the glass, he noted, instead of answering, “My regent and some of the others at court are starting to catch on to your sister.”

“Good,” Fahrad snorted. Anduin’s eyes snapped open. 

Bristling, the rogue gave his goatee a flick, and added, “Wrathion told me last night, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s what they have coming. This whole farce can end now, for all I care, as long as it doesn’t come back to him.”

Anduin nodded, but his thoughts turned to a garish postcard, a name hastily scrawled across the back, the cool glass counter pressing against the inside of his arm. His teeth clenched, and, when he swallowed, the force of it plummeted into the depths of his stomach. The blush drained from his cheeks. His head bowed, and he plucked at the open neckline of his tunic, watching it pucker and fall back in place.

Fahrad glanced down at his hand. His voice rose both in volume and pitch and the lines creasing his forehead returned. “In any case, there’s a room downstairs with a heated bath and clothes close to your size in the closet at the end of this hall, if the things in Wrathion’s room aren’t to your liking.” He offered another faint smile, which Anduin returned, his blond bangs quivering as he righted his neck. 

“Wrathion and I will be eating lunch in an hour or so. You’re welcome to join us, or not. If you’d prefer to take your meal upstairs, that can also be arranged.”

Anduin’s lips parted slightly, and he stole another peek towards the window. The courtyard, it seemed, had emptied. Wrathion’s voice no longer rang like chimes in the breeze, and the potion set had been packed away, in some dark corner, perhaps, tucked where only the dragons knew to find it. 

Easing closed his mouth, the king loosened his grip on his elbow and let his right hand fall to his side. He drew back his shoulders, sank down on his bare heels, and focused on an oil lamp flickering at the top of the stairs.

Its glow spilled out over the bottom step leading into Wrathion’s tower. A ball of patchwork fur swelled, rising and falling, and the ear poking out from the bundle twitched—stirred, perhaps, by a dream. 

Anduin could almost feel the smoothness of Wrathion’s scales slipping across his palm when he relaxed his fingers, the warm rumble of his voice trembling in his small chest. The heady smell of his cologne and the flash of his crimson eyes, and Fahrad’s stare inspecting his pale lower lip…

The king’s mind flew from one alternative to the other. When a sigh escaped between his clenched teeth, even he didn’t know what words his tongue wanted to form. 

“I think...I’ll probably stay in the room for a bit, if that is okay,” he mumbled, and silently cursed himself for it. 

“Of course, your Majesty,” the rogue answered, all emotion drained from his voice. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to let one of us know.”

“Okay,” Anduin nodded, hard enough that it shook him down to his knees. With that, he shoved his hands in his tunic and pattered across the wood floor to the tower, scooting around the cat, and quickening once he was sure his uneven footfalls wouldn’t wake her.

* * *

With every hour since the king’s coming to Ravenholdt, the squeaks and groans of the floorboards up in Wrathion’s tower seemed to grow in strength, weighing on the rooms below. Every night, the dragon lay on the couch by the hearth and stared at the ceiling, gripping each thought in Anduin’s direction and dragging them back from where they clamored and clawed for purchase at the front of his mind.

He stole glances in his direction when he slipped into the manor bathroom, or when he appeared after supper to turn his dishes over to one of his father’s attendants, but Wrathion could count on one hand the number of words they exchanged at those brief intersections. 

Then, on the fourth night, after Anduin set down his empty tray on the end table in Fahrad’s study, he pivoted on his heels and announced in the general direction of the fireplace that he wanted to go on a walk around the grounds the next day. 

The book cradled in Wrathion’s hands slipped to his lap, folding closed with a light thump. Lifting his head from the couch and smoothing out his curls, he exhaled. The tension around the corners of his lips, an ache that had deepened in Anduin’s absence, broke to accommodate a wide grin. 

“Of course, your Majesty!” He exclaimed.

Anduin nodded, the right side of his mouth twitching into a half-smile of his own. Without another word, he turned and bounded up the first stair of the tower. 

The next morning, Wrathion leaned against the bannister with a wicker basket tucked under one arm and a flask of water tied to his hip. After about fifteen minutes, the king emerged around the bend of the stairwell, his shoulders straight, and his lips an unreadable line. 

Inclining his head in his direction, Wrathion jostled the basket and greeted him with a grin. Anduin nodded and offered a short “hello,” and, as silence descended, the two set off down the open staircase leading into the manor’s main hall. 

They circled Fahrad’s table. Wrathion shot a brief glance towards a heap of letters with unbroken black seals where his father’s map of the northern kingdoms usually rested. A pang shot through his chest, and he went rigid to compensate, quickening his footfalls and narrowly missing a pulled-out chair with the basket swinging under his arm. 

Anduin kept his pace, and if he saw the letters, he didn’t react to them, either because he didn’t recognize the sender, or, more likely, because he didn’t know what to say. Regardless, a wave of relief swept over Wrathion as they stepped on to the porch and the cool mountain air ruffled his free-hanging curls. 

A soft ‘meow’ from the bottom stair drew his attention. Salome yawned and blinked, rising onto her paws and stretching out one back leg after the other. Anduin’s expression softened, the lines between his brows and around the corners of his lips fading. He bent at the waist and offered the cat his fingers. She sniffed, and shot the dragon behind him a questioning look. 

“It’s all right,” he murmured, stepping around Anduin to give the two space. 

“Salome, isn’t it?” The king asked. 

Wrathion nodded, but, upon realizing Anduin hadn’t looked up, swiftly added, “It is, yes. She’s a bit nervous around strangers, I’m afraid, but as she hasn’t hissed or scurried off under the table I can safely say she’s getting used to your presence.”

His words hung in the air a few moments longer than they should have. A breath caught in his throat, and, snapping closed his mouth, he held it, waiting for Anduin to answer. 

Instead, the king sank to one knee and brushed his fingers between the calico’s perked up ears. Wrathion’s scalp prickled, a memory of those same fingers petting his scales materializing on his skin. He shivered and rolled back his shoulders, passing the picnic basket from one hand to the other. 

Craning her neck, Salome squeaked. Her slit pupils narrowed, and, with a patter, she took off towards Wrathion’s curve-toed boots. He opened his mouth to apologize, but before he could find his voice the cat had flung herself on the step in front of him, belly upturned and determination lighting her eyes. 

Off to his right, Anduin rose and took a single step closer. Wrathion set aside his package and leaned down, running his nails through her soft, white fur. 

Clicking his tongue against his front teeth, he chided the cat. “Now, now, Salome. King Anduin gives excellent pets. You would be wise to accept them next time, you know.”

The cat yawned and tossed back her head. Her spine arched from the stone floor as she twisted and sniffed the corner of the basket. 

“Salome—” He warned. 

She scooted closer and pawed at the wicker. Wrathion scooped up the handle, and, beside him, Anduin chuckled under his breath, hushed enough that the sound disappeared beneath Salome’s increasingly louder whines. Wrathion shook his head. The cat kicked at the air above her. 

“She’s quite sweet until she’s hungry, but when she senses food, it’s all over, for all of us.”

“I see.” Anduin smiled, lingering a step behind him. After looping his arm back through the handle and tucking the basket under his arm, the dragon straightened, and side-stepped, putting even greater distance between himself and the king. It was only then that Anduin cleared his throat, and added, “Is it true, though?”

Wrathion paused, glancing over his shoulder with an arched brow, “Is what—?”

“About the pets, I mean.” A dusting of pink surfaced on the king’s pale cheeks, brightening when he stepped from the shadow of the manor into the morning light. 

Wrathion’s red eyes widened. Despite the chill, a flush of his own overcame him, rushing from the back of his neck to his parted lips. “Ah—” he tried, but the sound caught in his throat. Fumbling with the wicker looped over his shoulder, worrying over a splinter jutting out from the plaiting, he pivoted and took the rest of the stairs at an uneven gait. 

“In a manner of speaking, yes, I suppose,” he answered, after a gulp of cool air. He didn’t need to turn to know Anduin’s gaze was upon his back, boring into his curls as they bounced against the collar of his red tunic. Drawing back his shoulder blades, he focused his own stare on the dirt path leading to his father’s garden, and beyond to the fighting grounds where two human men struck at each other with wooden polearms. 

After a hesitating click, the footsteps behind him found his pace, then quickened to his side. The king followed him to the garden; he lifted his arm, gesturing with what he hoped was an inviting grin. 

“And over here, we have the farm,” he explained, with all the hospitality he used on his father’s customers. “Carrots and berries to trade with the good people living in the valley, interspersed with various doppelgangers for my own experiments. Please, refrain from picking anything yourself. I will be happy to assist you if necessary.”

He tilted his shoulders to face the king, bowing, and broadening his grin. When he caught the lines forming beneath the corners of the other boy’s mouth, his smile faltered. He brushed back his hair and continued, “Of course, if you would prefer, there’s always the cauliflower, and broccoli, too. My father swears by it, not just for his apprentices, but for our kind, as well, when we’re eating like mortals.”

“Do you do that often?” Anduin tucked his hands under his arms, bracing himself against the cool wind sweeping down from the mountains. 

“Of course!” Wrathion replied. “Father cannot hunt without being noticed, and as for me, I’m, ah—”

“Small,” the king supplied.

“Growing, I prefer, but yes.” Wrathion shifted his weight. He let out a choked laugh that cut through the air, but, as awkwardly as it lingered, the lines around the king’s mouth started to soften. Heartened by the gentle slump of his shoulders, Wrathion turned to face him, sliding his basket back down his arms and holding it before his knees. 

“I do hope you’ve been enjoying the food. I know the accommodations are a bit different from what you’re used to, however...”

“Oh, no.” Anduin uncrossed his arms, lifting a hand to stop him. “No, no, it’s really nice. I like it. Your room is nice, too, thank you. I’m sorry I’ve kind of taken it over...”

“Not at all,” Wrathion lied with a second laugh that came easier. “I like sleeping by the fire this time of year, either way. It’s still a bit cold for me up in the tower, but I’m glad to hear it’s suitable for you.”

“It is.” Anduin nodded. “And I can see the stars at night, just like you said. It’s really...lovely, thank you, Wrathion.” 

“Of course.” The dragon bobbed his head. With a lightness in his step, he bounded over to the fence and rested his hand upon the post. His other wrist unfurled in a flourish; the morning sun glimmered on his gold tipped nails, drawing the human’s gaze. 

He leaned back, returning to the tone he had used to introduce his crops, “And you remember the tunnel over there, of course. There’s a fork in the road we didn’t take. That leads into the foothills, and out towards the rubble that was once Durnholde Keep. Perhaps we can explore it, if there is time, though before we take any trips to the valley, there is much more I’d like to show you here.”

Anduin’s forehead creased, and, after taking another step forward, he craned his neck to glance at the tunnel’s maw where it yawned behind the trunk of their largest pine tree. “All right.” He tucked back a stray strand of hair. “Well, in that case, please continue.”

“All right!” Wrathion swung the basket, not letting himself be daunted by the opaque look that had returned to mask the king’s features. With an inhale, he pushed off the fence and hurried through the grass towards the training yard, bouncing on the pointed toes of his shoes with every step. 

After a brief stop at the edge of the fighting ring, and a wave in the trainees’ direction, he guided Anduin behind the manor to the cellar, regaling him with an amusing tale about a time his father’s potion set had caught fire and blown the door off its hinges. With a dramatic flick of his wrist, he drew the king’s eye, but he failed to elicit the hearty laugh he had hoped for.

His stomach sank, but he kept the disappointment from his eyes. He passed his basket into his left hand and used the right to loosen his collar, stealing a glance at Anduin’s lips before setting off towards the rocky slope rising from the back wall of the manor to a gap between two grass-covered peaks. 

He approached the lowest stone outcropping and swung the basket to rest upon it. “All right, your Majesty,” he called as his curled toes found purchase on the steep incline beside it. “If you don’t mind the climb, there is something up here I’d like you to see.” 

Fabric rustled behind him, followed by the swish of uneven footfalls sifting through the dirt. After a soft, concessive murmur, Anduin took to the trail behind him. Wrathion quickened, scooping up the basket and springing from an exposed tree root to a clump of shaggy grass. He brushed the edge of an eroded crevice with the side of his shoe, bending his knee and digging his heel into the beaten dirt to its left to compensate for the crumbling spurred by his impact.

Behind him, Anduin let out a squeak. He turned, straightening, and offering the human his forearm. “Is everything all right, my dear?”

Anduin gasped. His hand shot out and caught Wrathion’s elbow. His cheeks reddened as his breath hitched. “I’m fine! Just, uh, it’s been a while since I climbed anything larger than a tree.” 

“That’s quite all right.” Wrathion lingered while the king planted his feet in a secure crop of grass, then withdrew his arm and returned to his own climb. “We’re just about halfway there, and the path is much steadier up on the rocks. I’m afraid the snow left its mark on the dirt, but if we persist a few paces more it will surely get easier.”

“I hope so,” Anduin admitted, though not unkindly. He mimicked Wrathion’s next few steps and added, with a lift in his ragged voice. “You know, I never would have taken you for the outdoorsy type.”

Wrathion quirked a brow and glanced over his shoulder, searching the king’s flushed face for any sign of insult. He was greeted by a faint smile, broken only when Anduin sucked down a gulp of air and shot out his arms from his sides to keep his balance. 

His own expression softened, and he shrugged, resting against the outcropping while he waited for the king to catch up. “I suppose you are right, but when one has no friends or siblings, one finds new ways to pass the time. I have had a regretful amount of time to myself to perfect such talents.”

“I know what you mean.” Anduin straightened his legs and wiped his hands on the sides of his pants. He flicked back his bangs with his knuckles, revealing a faint sheen of sweat clinging to his brow. Pursing his lips, he stared up to Wrathion’s eyes. 

“For me it was writing. I practiced the same lines over and over and over until I got it just right. I probably would have liked to climb, but, well, getting anyone to let me outside alone was difficult.”

“Ah, yes, I noticed. Even now, your guards seem intent to keep you in their sights, at all times.”

“Except when I needed them to,” Anduin chuckled, pivoting and paying the manor roof a lengthy stare. Despite the lightness of his tone, Wrathion tensed. His mouth went dry, and he swallowed, clutching the basket a bit too tightly in his claws. 

He took the next two leaps without looking back. When he reached a stone shelf near the top of the pass, he lifted the wicker over his head and scooted it forward, uncurling his fingers, and curling them, again, around the rocky lip. Pressing into his palms and bending his elbows, he pushed until his toes left the dirt and he could swing his knee up on the shelf. 

With an exhale, he knelt and looked down. Anduin regarded him with rapidly widening eyes. 

He held out his hand. Anduin stared at it for a second and took it, wrapping his palm between Wrathion’s thumb and first finger. The dragon rose to his feet with a tug, and Anduin kicked once at the dirt beneath the ledge before flinging up his leg.

Wrathion fought to keep the strain of exertion from creasing his brow. So focused on quieting his breath, measuring the length and depth of every inhale, he didn’t realize Anduin hadn’t released his grip until their fingers shifted and laced together. 

Anduin squeezed, and Wrathion’s slit pupils widened, heat spreading up his neck beneath his curls. He cleared his throat and lifted the basket with his free hand, setting his attention on the col nearly level with where they stood. 

An embarrassed smile twitched at the corners of his lips. He arched his back, and nodded. “Ah, yes, there we go. Just a few more moments, King Anduin.”

“Okay,” the human replied. His grasp loosened, but didn’t slide his hand from Wrathion’s palm. 

Searching for some distraction from the glow overtaking his cheeks, Wrathion started to ramble. “But, yes! This is one of my favorite spots to rest during the day. Sometimes I bring lunch, or a book from my father’s study. It gives an excellent view of the Hinterlands. On a clear day, you may even see a gryphon or two take off from Aerie Peak to the west and soar through the valley towards Southshore.”

“Oh?”Anduin followed at his side, their sleeves brushing together. “And why don’t you?”

“Why don’t I ‘what,’ my dear?” He began, before the realization hit and he bobbed his head. “Why don’t a fly, you mean?”

“Yes.” Anduin cast a curious glance in his direction, which he met with a too-wide smile. “I mean, you have wings, right? And you’re still pretty small…”

“I...am,” Wrathion hesitated. Rather than easing his blush, the topic sparked it to greater ferocity. It darkened the tips of his ears and tingled on his taut lower lip. “Yes, that is quite true,” he conceded, choosing his words carefully. “And I am certain I could fly up here if there were need, but I find my human form more comfortable for such matters, at least for the present.”

“It’s still difficult, isn’t it?” Anduin’s shoulder nudged against his. 

He quirked a brow, shooting the human a glance from the corner of his eye. “Difficult? Not quite difficult, I am simply—”

“Awkward,” Anduin supplied.

“No, absolutely not!”

“I get it, Wrathion, it’s fine!” Anduin gave his hand another squeeze, pausing and angling in to flash him a smile. A giggle escaped between his teeth when his eyes fell on Wrathion’s goatee. “Your wings are too small for your body. You’re still growing.”

“I’m getting better,” Wrathion insisted. When he huffed, a wisp of smoke snorted from his flaring nostrils. “In a couple of years, I will be nearly a drake, and then a climb like this will take a few seconds at most.”

“It’s okay, Wrathion.” Anduin patted, then squeezed his hand. “Really. To tell you the truth, I think it’s cute.”

The weight of what he had said seemed to strike both of them at once. Wrathion tensed and drove his heels into the dirt. Anduin’s cheeks, already pink with chill and exertion, deepened to crimson. He cleared his throat. Wrathion forced the air from his lungs. They walked through the col in silence, only daring to speak again once they emerged in the open sunlight.

“All right, here we are,” Wrathion proclaimed, louder and with more vigor than his introductions around the manor. He extended the hand that gripped the wicker handle, swinging the basket along with it. The bread inside shifted, thumping gently against the cloth lining the container’s interior. 

With some reluctance, he slipped his hand from Anduin’s palm and wandered to a familiar tree, setting their breakfast against the base of its trunk. Once relieved of his burden, Wrathion flexed his fingers and fell into his usual gesticulation. 

“If you would like to take a seat here, I will show you what I have brought for us. This tree is wide enough to accommodate us both, I believe.”

Anduin nodded; a thick piece of his bangs stuck to his forehead while the rest swayed beside his temples. “Okay,” he murmured and took a step forward, hunching his back to gaze into the valley. “Oh, Wrathion.” His eyes widened, catching the blue of the sky on their azure expanse. “This is beautiful.”

“I thought you might like it,” Wrathion leaned back against the trunk and crossed his arms, adopting an air of neutrality even while his heart quickened.

“I do.”

“I’m very glad.” 

“Thank you.”

“Really,” Wrathion forced the word through the lump that stuck in his throat when he caught Anduin’s smile. Blood rushed in his ears, and he had to hug his arms tightly against his chest to keep them from unfurling and falling limp by his sides. Anduin’s blond hair shone in the morning light. The slope of his slender shoulders had a certain grace to it that always caught Wrathion’s eye. 

He licked and bit his lower lip. Anduin turned to him, and his chest tightened. Digging his shoulder blades into the tree behind him, he hardly noticed its ruts or the way it scratched the leather of his tunic. Anduin smiled; Wrathion bowed his head. 

A cool wind swept through the col, ruffling Anduin’s hair. He shivered. Wrathion slid down the trunk to the soft grass below. “Really,” he tried again. “Don’t thank me until you’ve tasted the food, at least. I remembered how much you enjoyed the honey at court, so I bartered for a bit of honey butter from a farmer who lives nearby. Ah, here—”

His hand flew to the latch on the basket, flicking it open with a clink and peeling back the lid. He dipped his fingers in and encircled the gingham-wrapped loaf, pulling it out and nudging the lid with his elbow until it swung closed. 

He placed the bread on top of it, unfurling the cloth to reveal a small pat of butter and a knife packed at its side. Anduin smiled and took a seat on the other end of the makeshift table. He accepted the slice Wrathion cut for him and thanked him, spreading a modest helping of butter across its face.

After a bite, his eyes lit up and he added another scoop. After two more bites, he spoke, his voice low and his gaze somewhat unfocused as it gazed out over the valley. 

“I hope everything is okay, back home, I mean. I’m really worried about Bolvar…”

“I understand, my dear,” Wrathion answered, matching his breathy tone. His nails found the wicker handle of the basket, and he plucked at the same loose plait he had worried over when they stood on the porch. He tugged at it, feeling the reeds draw together, then flicked at it with the gold tip of his nail. 

“We’re not going to stay here forever, you know,” he tried to assure him. “Father and I have chatted a bit about how to proceed. We will see you returned to your throne, and Onyxia driven back to her lair. Never again will she meddle in your affairs.”

Anduin froze with the remaining wedge of his bread clutched in his fingers, halfway between the table and his open mouth. Furrowing his brow, he lowered his gaze. “And what about you?”

“What about me?” The words caught the dragon off guard. Scooting to face the king, he waited. His stomach sank with every silent moment that passed. 

“I mean—” Anduin said after biting his lip. “I mean what do you want to do after that? If I go back, and we tell the world what Katrana is, what...where does that leave you?”

“I—” Wrathion paused. The wicker handle slipped from his hold and hit the side of the basket with a soft ‘clck.’ A chill swept up the dragon’s back, and as he studied the half eaten bread before him, his mind turned from one half-considered possibility to the next. With every flicker of thought his tongue grew heavier. When he inhaled, his shoulders rose to the golden hoops hanging from his ears. 

“I don’t know, really,” he admitted. ‘I will find a way to survive, no matter what that means,’ he wanted to add. 

Anduin, however, didn’t give him the chance. Setting down the remnants of his buttered bread on the cloth between them, he leaned forward, and regarded Wrathion with a piercing look he felt against the side of his face. He decided it best not to turn to it, and forced an exhale from his lips. 

“Wrathion?” The king asked in a small voice.

“Yes,” he responded automatically. 

The basket beside him shifted, pressed against Wrathion’s thigh by the human on its other side. Before the dragon could process what was happening, a hand reached across the table and slid along the curve of his cheek. 

Finally, he turned. Red eyes met blue, glowing upon their glassy surface. The light lingered for a moment, and disappeared beneath the king’s blond lashes when they fell closed.

Wrathion leaned in to his touch, but the corners of his mouth slackened to a frown of concern. He knew he should ask the king if he was alright, but before he could hope to form the word the basket shifted once more. Anduin rose and leaned across it. He exhaled and covered Wrathion’s frown with a gentle kiss. 

The dragon’s heart quickened, and with a smoky exhale, he squeezed closed his eyes. Anduin’s soft lips parted, coaxing his open, murmuring something wordless against the tip of his hesitant tongue.

* * *

They spent the next few days together, taking breakfast with Fahrad at the downstairs table, sparring alongside the rogues in the dusty training ring. Wrathion took the opportunity to show Anduin his lab, and delighted in the impressed widening of the king’s eyes when he pulled out a handful of herbs and reduced them to a bubbling, smoking concoction.

They spent their evenings tucked in together by the fireplace. Anduin often read, while Wrathion worked on an embroidered pillow he had started before leaving for Stormwind. Poking the golden thread in and out of the black taffeta case, he fell into a rhythm punctuated only by Salome’s occasional attempts to steal the spool from the cushion between them. It always made the king giggle behind whatever tome he had chosen to spread open on his knees. 

One night, though Salome was nowhere to be seen, a similar nervous chuckle arose from behind the green binding of the book clutched in Anduin’s hands. Wrathion set down his sewing and lifted his gaze to find the human’s pale cheeks stained red in the firelight. 

“Is everything all right, my dear?” He murmured. Anduin shifted his fingers to turn the page, revealing the smiling faces of two human men Wrathion recognized too well. 

“Oh.” An awkward laugh fell from his lips. Anduin’s eyes darted upwards, his brows knitting and his fingers tightening around the corners of the book until his knuckles turned white. “Oh.” The dragon placed his embroidery on the end table and shifted closer, flashing the king a knowing look. “Ah, I see.”

“What I’m reading?” Anduin asked, a bit sheepish.

“Mh-hm,” Wrathion admitted. “I’m well acquainted with that one, to tell you the truth. Sir Marcus always finds interesting ways to entertain himself.” 

“He—um, yes.” Wrathion didn’t think Anduin’s face could get any redder, but it did, brightening to nearly the color of the logs smoldering nearby. His finger fumbled with the corner of the page, before hastily flipping it, and staring at some indeterminate mark in its center. 

Wrathion longed to tease him, but when he tried, his tongue stuck to the floor of his mouth, jammed against his bottom teeth. He gave the collar of his red linen tunic a gentle pluck, in an attempt to get some air to the tight binding he wore beneath. Clearing his throat, he turned his gaze toward the fire, and then to its left, to the gold phonograph his father had purchased from the gnomes. 

The corners of his mouth twitched into an easier smile. He swallowed and found his voice. “Perhaps some music would do us both well.”

“Music?” Anduin’s brows rose. He lowered the book, folding it closed around his thumb. His stare darted back and forth across Wrathion’s features. “What do you mean? Do you have an instrument?” 

“No, no, something even better,” the dragon exclaimed. Having made up his mind, he untucked his bare feet and let them fall to the rug, standing, and strolling over to the machine. He rested his palm atop the gold horn, tapping the tip of his nail against it.

A gentle ‘ping’ echoed through the bell. 

“Oh,” Anduin tried, shifting forward in his seat. “I was wondering about that. Is it some kind of trumpet?” 

Wrathion’s curls swished beneath his chin when he shook his head. “No, no, it’s a phonograph. It plays music. A rather brilliant invention, I must say. It is like having an entire orchestra all to one’s self.”

“I’d like to hear that.” Anduin abandoned the book by his side, letting it close completely with a soft ‘thud.’ Propping his elbows on his knees and folding his hands in his lap, he bent in, looking from Wrathion’s face to the bell and back. 

Emboldened by his curiosity, Wrathion reached into a box near his feet and withdrew a record with a well worn cover. In the fire’s glow, he could barely make out the smiling face of a woman with her white gown outstretched in a curtsey. 

He eased the record from its sleeve, placing it on the platter and lowering the stylus. The plate quivered and hummed to life, the first violin chords of a waltz filling the air. 

Anduin straightened; his jaw slackened, and his chest rose with the force of his gasp. Before he could form a question, Wrathion cut him off with a grand wave of his hand. “This one is one of my favorites. In fact, Father purchased it before I came to see you at court, so that I might learn how to dance like a noble.”

“You...learned to dance with this machine?”

“With one of my father’s wealthy associates, to be precise, but yes, listening to this machine.”

“I see,” Anduin replied, though his bewildered expression cast some doubt on his words. 

A flute joined the violin, and Wrathion took a step forward, unconsciously slipping into step with the song. By the time he returned to the sofa his footsteps were light, and his arm longed to reach forward. He bowed and flashed the king a dazzling smile. His elbow hooked before his chest. 

“You know, my dear,” he mused, studying his own shadow in the other boy’s widening eyes. “We never got the chance to dance at the ball, after all of that practice. Perhaps you will humor me for a moment, if you think this is something you would enjoy.”

“You’re—” Anduin blinked, staring at the dragon’s forearm. His lips didn’t seem to know what to do, half smiling, half parted in a confounded stutter. “You’re serious?” 

“Why not?” Wrathion’s voice leapt to compensate for the swell of the clarinets. Under Anduin’s stare, he shifted, wondering if he should lower his arm. Every second the human watched him his chest grew tighter. 

As he lingered in deliberation, Anduin scooted forward. The sofa beneath him squeaked, and he rose, shaking out the loose fitting linen pants he wore every night to bed and pulling his cotton sleep shirt back up his shoulder. Their eyes met, and he smiled a sheepish smile. The crown of his head almost bumped Wrathion’s chin when he plunged into a bow of his own. 

Wrathion reached for the curve of Anduin’s waist. Their arms bumped, and he chuckled, clicking his tongue between his teeth and shooting his hand forward before the king could steal the lead. 

Bristling and licking his lips, Anduin yielded, wrapping his own palm around the top of Wrathion’s arm and trailing him. Their other hands met and clasped together, and they took off. 

Their bare toes bumped three times before they found the rhythm; Anduin’s face brightened as Wrathion twirled him around the edge of the rug. A chuckle built in Wrathion’s chest but never breached his lips, as they were pressed too tightly together in concentration. 

When Wrathion extended his leg, Anduin bent into it at an uneasy angle. Tightening his grip on the human’s slim lower back, he held him there for a moment, savoring the warmth of his skin beneath his thin shirt even though his upper arm ached in accommodating him. 

By the time they came back together, all Wrathion’s thoughts had turned to the supple lines of Anduin’s waist and the softness of his features cast in graceful relief by the flickering flames. 

His pulse quickened. An ache built deep between his legs, and he swallowed, unable to chase away his need to draw their bodies together, images of their limbs entangled rising to the front of his mind. 

He pulled his waist in. Anduin complied. They stared into each others’ eyes, and Wrathion stopped, releasing grip on his hand to reach, instead, for the tip of his chin. 

Anduin bent into his touch, allowing him to tilt up his face. Closing his eyes, the dragon leaned forward until their lips pressed together in a gentle kiss. 

His hand left the king’s chin, knuckles grazing the side of his face, and he pressed closer. When he broke contact to take a breath, Anduin wrapped his arms around his waist and kissed his cheek. Their mouths reconnected and parted. Pressed together, they fell back in time with the music, but forgot most of the steps: leaning and swaying, rubbing exposed skin and tucking back stray wisps of hair that threatened to fall between them.

As they approached the sofa, Wrathion’s pulse quickened in his ears. Remembering a particular move, he wrapped his fingers around the king’s waist and attempted to lift him. He hadn’t accounted, however, for the similarity of their size, and his arms strained, his steps faltering, and Anduin tripping until the back of his knees connected with the cushion.

Laughing and blushing, the king tumbled backwards. His hand flew to grasp the back of the chair and his legs fell open: one foot curling and digging into the cushion while the other dangled over the edge. As he stared down at himself, Wrathion moved to join him. He released his grip on his waist and slid up until their chests pressed firmly together. 

Anduin flustered and gasped out another laugh. Wrathion stared into his blush-stained face and smiled, rubbing their noses together, claiming his mouth in a long, unyielding kiss. 

His hand slid up the human’s side, pushing up his shirt an inch or two to expose his soft abdomen. Anduin’s fingers wandered to the back of his head, brushing and toying with his thick curls, making his scalp prickle and his shoulders draw up to his ears. 

Anduin trembled, and his lips puckered, pecking at his flushed skin. Heat started to build between Wrathion’s legs, deepening, and spreading a certain dampness in his small clothes. When he rocked against Anduin’s hips, he found firmness that wasn’t there before. 

A choked sound escaped their kiss, and Anduin slid back, pressing himself into the corner of the couch with his elbow jammed against the armrest. His chest rose and fell. His face burned, and his thighs pressed together, leaving little room for Wrathion to linger between his knees. 

With a surge of fear he had crossed a line, the dragon clambered back onto his heels. His hands flew to his lap, and he lowered his gaze. For a moment, neither of them dared to utter a sound. The fire popped. Somewhere in the distance, a floorboard squeaked. Wrathion’s shirt rustled softly as his fingers rushed to readjust it. 

Clearing his throat, Anduin drew in an audible breath and mumbled, hesitantly, “I...should probably go upstairs.”

“Ah, yes.” Wrathion’s heart sank. “It’s probably for the best.”

The cushion beneath the dragon shifted and the sofa creaked as Anduin rose to his feet. His shadow fell across Wrathion’s face and, when he bounced on the balls of his feet, the ground beneath them groaned softly. 

For a moment, the dragon didn’t dare to look up. Finally, he chanced a glance in the other boy’s direction, and found him lingering with one hand outstretched and the other fumbling with the hem of his shirt. 

“Would you like to come—ah, to my room— _your_ room, I mean, with me?”

“Yes,” Wrathion heard himself gasp. His feet hit the rug with a gentle thud and he grabbed Anduin’s hands, squeezing and pulling the king into the hallway. They nearly tripped over each other on the way to the tower.

After only two steps up the winding staircase, Wrathion pinned the king against the cobblestone wall and kissed, tongue nudging between his lips and fingers snaking through his rumbled blond hair. Grasping the back of the king’s loose shirt, he clung to him, savoring the small moan that passed between them and the rise and fall of Anduin’s chest pressed against his own.


	5. Part V

A strip of warm sunlight fell upon Anduin’s face, shaking him from his slumber. Squinting and rubbing his eyes on the back of his hand, he rolled over, expecting to land with the side of his head pressed against the pillow. 

Instead, he bumped into a thin, wiry upper arm and the firm ridge of a collarbone. Beneath it lay the gentle swell of a chest dusted with sparse dark hair and two hands clutching a blanket. 

When he stirred, his thick curls tickled the tip of Anduin’s nose, and when he shifted, their toes brushed at the end of the bed, sharp nails scratching lightly against the top of Anduin’s foot. His body warmed the king’s skin and the small gap between their bare thighs. 

Oh. Oh yes, that was right. He had slept with Wrathion. 

Though sleep wasn’t quite where it had started. Memories of the night before sent the blood rushing to Anduin’s already-hot cheeks, but he resisted the urge to bury his face in the crook of Wrathion’s neck, instead planting a shy kiss on his shoulder and sliding out from under the blankets as quietly as he could manage. 

The mattress squeaked when relieved of his weight; Wrathion murmured and pulled the blanket an inch or two towards his neck, but showed no other signs of waking. Feeling around on the floor, Anduin located the blue undershorts Wrathion had tossed to the side the night before. He stepped into them, then snatched a plain black tank from Wrathion’s dresser and tugged it over his head. 

After stealing another glance at the dragon balled up in a tangle of blankets, he smoothed back his bangs, swallowed the hitch in his breath, and carefully eased open the door. When he stepped on the landing, his foot bumped against an unmarked brown box wrapped in twine. 

Sidling up to the wall, he picked it up and gave it a curious shake before untyingand easing open the lid. In the dim light of the stairwell, he could barely make out something long, thin, and slightly sheer coiled inside. He ran his fingers along its soft surface, down to a ringed end wrapped loosely with some kind of tie. 

His heart stopped, and the blood pinkening his cheeks shot to the tips of his ears. This shape, its hollow interior...he had heard it discussed many times by his guards, and whispered about among noblemen when they didn’t think he was listening. 

But they hadn’t...they didn’t… 

The king’s hands quivered, fumbling to snap closed the box before he dropped it halfway down the stairs. Unsure what else to do, he whirled around and tucked it into the corner beside Wrathion’s door, silently praying the dragon would know how to handle this. Had they really been so loud, so _obvious_ , to draw Fahrad’s attention? Did he think Anduin had...with no consideration…?

The king’s mouth snapped closed. His tongue pressed against his tightly clenched teeth. Caught between hurrying down the stairs and ducking back into Wrathion’s bedroom, he missed the first step and had to clutch the handrail to keep himself upright. 

A small cry forced its way through his lips. A voice rose from somewhere downstairs, growing louder with every shaky step the king managed to take. 

“Look, you’ll have to forgive me for the traps. I don’t know how things are up in Lordaeron, but these hills see some unsavory types. We have to take every precaution. I’m sure a knight like you understands.” 

Anduin stopped with the ball of his foot poised on the stair below. Rather than bearing down on it, he withdrew, bringing it to rest beside the other as he waited for Fahrad to continue. 

Another voice, lower and gruffer than the dragon’s, replied. There was no hint of leeway in his voice. “But it’s true this is the residence of Lord Fahrad Prestor, and his son, Wrathion Prestor.”

“I am Lord Prestor, yes, but as I said outside, Wrathion has gone south to meet his aunt in Stormwind.”

“A member of our order serving in Stormwind says otherwise. The royal regent, Lord Bolvar Fordragon, has requested we seek out Wrathion Prestor for information regarding the disappearance of High King Anduin Wrynn—”

“—What do you mean ‘disappearance?’ If the king ran off with my son, he had every right to—”

“So you admit you know where he is?”

“I have admitted nothing of the sort! I just want to stop you from chasing my son to the ends of the earth when it’s clear he’s committed no crime—”

“—If he’s committed no crime, you won’t hesitate to let us search the premises.”

“I never said that. This is my private estate, gentlemen. You can’t expect me to just—”

Anduin staggered. The world around him spun, as if, in his attention to every word he had suddenly forgotten how to breathe. Gripping the handrail and locking his knees, he strained to make sense of the sounds on the floor below. Plate armor squeaked and clattered; heavy footfalls crossed the threshold and headed towards the center of the room.

His jaw ached from the stress of being clenched so tightly in place. He wanted to run, but even the lightest patter of footsteps would creak on the floorboards and crack across the ceiling below. If they had been overheard in the tower, Light only knows how loud he would be on the stairs.

Along with indecision, another fear kicked up in the pit of his stomach, churning bile up the back of his throat. Whoever was looking for Wrathion had been sent here at Bolvar’s behest. This was his doing. _He_ had done this, sending that tacky postcard to Shaw.

What had seemed wise at the time made him feel like a fool. If he had trusted Wrathion, if he had believed in him after his rescue, he’d be back by his side in bed with a cup of coffee pressed in his hands, worrying how to tell him about the condom, not how to keep him safe. They’d have another easy day, and several more after that. 

And when they were done, he would return to Stormwind with Wrathion at his side, with a plan hatched to expose Katrana, and another to shield Wrathion from blame. They would be safe, if only he hadn’t been so hasty, so _unthinking_ , and hadn’t—

“Excuse me!” Fahrad snapped, interrupting his self-flagellation. “This is my home. Any questions you have for me can be answered on the front step. Don’t make this a fight when we both know it doesn’t have to be.”

Anduin dug his nails into the rail, ready to spring at a moment’s notice, either to dash down and put a stop to the interrogation, or to bolt up to Wrathion’s door and slam it closed behind him. As he waited, thighs clenched and knees slightly bent, a pair of tiny feet scurried up the back of his ankle. They scratched the soft skin of his calf before finding purchase on the silk of his undershorts. 

The change in weight tugged them an inch or two down his waist. Every muscle in his body tightened, and he threw back his shoulders, just as the creature hopped onto the back of his shirt and made for the nape of his neck. By the time Wrathion’s small muzzle nudged under his jaw, a shiver had crawled up his spine. The dragon dug into his flesh. 

His breath hitched, and he had to bite his tongue to contain his soft cry. 

“Not here,” Wrathion hissed against the shell of his ear, anticipating the rise in his chest. “Step back, slowly. Avoid putting down your weight in the center of the step.”

The king nodded, swallowing. Shifting onto his toes, he lifted his leg and tip-toed it back, avoiding the middle of the stair as Wrathion had recommended and aiming, instead, for the edge nearest to the outer wall. 

The handrail pressed against the side of his leg, and he leaned into it, using it to steady them on his ascent up the next few stairs. His heel caught on the embarrassing package he had jammed in the corner, but he recovered, recoiling his foot before it could fall or knock him off his balance. 

He stepped carefully over the landing, then crossed the threshold with his back still pointed towards the bed. When he made it to the center of the room, Wrathion climbed down his side. His claws clicked across the wood floor, but when he nudged closed the door with the top of his head the hinges didn’t make a sound. He had clearly practiced this many times, and had all the composure Anduin lacked as he made for the bookshelf in the corner like a cat on a silent prowl.

When he reached it, he shimmied up the side and poked his nose into a hole the king hadn’t noticed. Somewhere within, a mechanism clicked, and every book not jammed together with its neighbors tipped to the side. 

Not sure how else to be useful, Anduin hurried towards it, catching a leather bound volume with a thick spine before it could fall. As he righted it, he glimpsed gold-embossed words between his fingers: _Guide, Stormwind Court, House of Nobles_. 

With a brief arch of his brow, he wondered why his eyes hadn’t fallen on that one before.

But there was no time to waste on it now. When the book shelf popped free, a thick, musty smell like a damp cellar leaked in through the gap in the wall. Wrathion squirmed through the hole and waited for Anduin to join him. His small red eyes glowed like pin pricks in the dark. 

Nodding, the king turned and shimmied along the wall through the gap. Once he was through, he reached for a very obvious handle and pulled it closed. A thin sliver or two of sunlight entered through slats Anduin had overlooked, carefully tucked as they were among the many volumes on various topics lining Wrathion’s shelves. 

“Well,” the dragon mused, after crawling his way back up the king’s spine to perch against the side of his neck. “That was certainly an inconvenient way to start our morning.”

“They won’t be able to find us in here, though, right?” Anduin whispered, barely louder than the halted intake of the breath that preceded it. 

“Highly unlikely,” the dragon replied. “And if it comes to it, there’s a trap door on the floor behind us, and a ladder that will ferry us into my father’s hoard. Not even the keenest of rogues have managed to break into it, so I suspect, at least for now, we are safe.” 

A panicked laugh rose to the back of Anduin’s throat, which he quickly swallowed, opting instead for a more restrained tease, “Your father really thinks of everything.” 

“As he must, though he never intended to use it to house a king.”

Anduin ground his teeth. A sliver of sunlight cutting through the shadows drew his eye. After a few labored breaths, he murmured, as steadily as he could manage, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, my dear.” A scaly wing ruffled a strand from his disheveled bangs. “I knew the risks before I decided to bring you here.”

“No. I mean—” Anduin’s voice jumped an octave, and he had to fight to rein it back in. He could leave the truth unsaid and proceed as if Bolvar had followed his own suspicions, but that wouldn’t be honest or fair. Wrathion had revealed so much about himself to Anduin. At the very least, he owed him the same level of respect. 

Squeezing closed his eyes, dropping off into darkness, the king continued, lower and slower than before: “This is my fault, Wrathion. I tipped off my spymaster when you left me alone in Bogpaddle.”

“Oh.” The dragon’s rumble hung heavy in the air. Clenching his shoulders, Anduin steeled himself for whatever else Wrathion had to say.

After a pause and a smoky puff that tickled Anduin’s sweat-soaked temple, Wrathion put his anticipation to rest. “I cannot say I blame you. It was smart to do so, even, though rather inconvenient for us now.”

“I’m sorry,” Anduin repeated, feeling useless. The word sunk like a weight through the musty air.

“Don’t be. Really. Between the three of us, I am sure we will think of something.”

“Okay.” Anduin opened his mouth to say more, but a nip to the soft skin beneath his jaw cut him off. His frown straightened, and the muscles in his face started to unclench as the dragon scooted under his hair and wrapped his warmy, scaly body like a scarf around the back of his neck. 

His maw rested lazily against his right shoulder, while his tail swished across the left side of his chest, passing over the thin fabric of his black tank and tickling a bit of exposed skin above his underarm.

They stood in silence for a time. Anduin turned a silent prayer to the Light, and Wrathion slumped against him. When they had just started to get comfortable, a set of knuckles rapped at the door.

“Boys?” Fahrad muttered. Somewhere below, a board squeaked. A key rattled. Wrathion sprung off his back and transformed. 

“Can I come in?”

“You may,” the younger dragon called. He reached over Anduin’s shoulder and caught the latch, giving it a yank that popped the bookcase out from the wall. 

Anduin prepared himself for the worst, but soon discovered that father and son knew exactly what they were doing. Fahrad entered the room alone, and the only other figures lingering on the landing belonged to Tess and the high elf Myrokos. 

Fahrad passed in front of the bed but opted to stand with his arms crossed against the opposite wall. “I’m not sure how much of that you heard.”

“Enough,” Anduin admitted, resisting the urge to throw out another apology. “Are they gone?” 

“Escorted all the way down the mountain by Left, yes. I’m going to have to get Zan to add a couple more traps.”

“Who were they, exactly?” Wrathion stepped from behind him, moving to sit on the corner of his bed. Anduin followed, trying not to blush when his gaze strayed to the rumpled mess of blankets and pillows flung to the side.

By the grace of the Light, nobody else paid them more than a glance. The king straightened, readjusting his shirt and thin shorts and turning his mind back to Fahrad’s low voice.

“Silver Hand, from the order of Uther, they said. Probably from that blasted shrine at the mouth of the river.”

“Of course.” Anduin sighed, letting his chin sink to his chest. “That makes sense. Bolvar sent them without alerting the guard.”

“That’s what they told us, yes.”

“Well, stupid as it was,” Wrathion chimed in with an awkward chuckle, “At least they’ve decided to be forthcoming.” His hands, tightly clenched against the front of his sleeping shorts, undermined the air of mirth he tried to put on.

Reaching over, Anduin rested his palm atop his fists and gave him a tentative squeeze. “At least they haven’t involved Katrana and the rest of your family.”

“Because he thinks they’re in league with her,” Tess broke her silence to point out. Anduin shot her a hopeless look, but she shrugged, and her expression remained unreadable. 

“And that’s fine,” Fahrad corrected. “We all knew that was coming. What we need to do is strike while we have the upper hand, let Wrathion set himself apart from her. We need to act fiercely, and soon.”

“So what do we do?” Anduin cursed the smallness of his voice. Wrathion shot him a look and shifted until their legs pressed together. 

“You make your presence known.” The heels of Tess’ boots clicked as she stepped into the doorway and leaned back against the frame. She crossed her arms, and, after paying the younger boys a slight nod, turned her attention to the lord of the house. 

“There’s nothing nobles like more than a king showing up on their doorstep to kiss their ass.”

Fahrad snorted. “What are you trying to suggest?”

Anduin looked to Wrathion, who had quirked his brow, but neither interrupted the princess. After a slight roll of her eyes, she kicked off from the wall and wandered over to the window. 

“You should hear the way people up here talk about Stormwind, how they begrudge Anduin for staying away.”

The young king tried not to balk, though the change in his posture didn’t go unnoticed. Fahrad shot him what felt like an empathetic smile, before sighing, loud and exasperated. “All right, go on.”

“They’d love nothing more than a surprise visit from the High King of Stormwind and his intended, if nothing else to put all their gossip to rest.”

“But the moment we step foot into one of these cities, my dear Auntie and all of her servants will be upon us. I’m afraid you underestimate how quickly news travels to her ears.”

The princess turned to Wrathion, and a smile, uncharacteristically wide, twitched at the corners of her lips. An understanding must have passed between them, for Wrathion returned it with a toothy smirk and scooted forward until his bare feet pressed against the floor. 

Fahrad nodded. Tess’ gray eyes fell upon the king, and she explained, for his benefit alone, “So we go where Katrana Prestor can’t get you.”

Gilneas. The walled kingdom. Of course. 

Straightening and flashing her a resolute smile of his own, he replied, with all the strength of the king he was supposed to be, “Okay, your Highness. I trust your judgment in this, and I am thrilled for the opportunity to finally visit your city.”

* * *

They rode down from the mountains that morning, and had crossed the sweeping expanse of Hillsbrad by twilight. If they had stayed on the road Anduin suspected they would have made it to the border by late afternoon, but Tess had recommended giving Southshore and its guard towers a wide berth to avoid arousing any suspicions. 

The others had agreed, and Anduin had gripped his reins a bit tighter through the offroad leg of their journey. With Wrathion riding behind him, every dip or bump in the road pressed their bodies together. When darkness started to fall, the dragon’s hands got bolder. One rubbed the inside of his thigh high enough to make him squirm in his seat. 

This was a serious and potentially dangerous mission, he tried to remind himself. But with Tess swaying easily on her horse in front of him and Fahrad trailing a safe distance behind, it was hard not to enjoy the freedom of the road and the possibilities that lay ahead. He and Wrathion would arrive at Gilneas as honored guests of the princess, and as partners, arm-in-arm, immune to open disapproval from a foreign court. 

Maybe for now, at least, he could let himself be happy. The next time Wrathion’s curious fingers wandered to the front of his pants he didn’t stop him. Leaning back, he murmured the dragon’s name. In reply, Wrathion planted a kiss against the curve of his neck. 

A heavy fog slipped between the trees and wrapped them in its embrace, shrouding the king and his glowing pink cheeks from any glance paid at them from the princess in front or the rogue traveling behind. 

After a few more hours, the mists became too thick for them to continue. The group set up camp by the side of the road, with Fahrad opting to keep watch and Wrathion transforming into his true form to curl up on Anduin’s chest. There was barely enough room in the tent for two, he explained—let alone three. 

Even with a warm weight nestled against his heart, the hard ground and the distant howl of beasts beyond the canvas walls made it difficult for Anduin to get any sleep.

In the interest of occupying his mind, his thoughts turned to Gilneas and the stories he had read in the palace annals, of a king who refused to stand with Lordaeron and Alterac against the orcish threat, building a massive wall, bringing sorcerers to his doorstep to summon beasts ferocious and wild enough to bring the Horde tumbling to their knees…

Show them no mercy, King Greymane had said in protest of the internment camps. He, he had insisted, wouldn’t idly wait for his land to be overcome. 

Trailing a finger down the crest of Wrathion’s back, enjoying the smoothness of scales running beneath his skin, he craned his neck and studied Tess’ tousled head in the dark. Was it really safe to walk into a kingdom like that? Was it right to bring a fight like this to Gilneas, after everything its royal family had done to shield its people from outside harm?

At some point during his musings, Anduin’s eyes fell closed. He awoke a few hours later to Wrathion’s claw-like nails tapping his shoulder and the woosh of Tess’ sleeping sack being tugged out the tent and rolled in the grass outside. 

After a quick change of clothes and a splash of water to their faces, the king and the dragon were back in their saddle and out on the road. This time, rather than fumbling around in the dark, they shared a public kiss and spent the rest of the morning musing and planning and dreaming of Gilnean tea and a warm place together by the fireplace. 

A few hours passed, and the forest around them grew denser. Bristled pines lined the road in more even intervals, parting the fog rolling down from what looked to be mountains ahead. As they drew closer, Anduin realized it wasn’t a natural landmass, but Greymane Wall—as tall as the tallest spire of the Stormwind Cathedral and ten times as long as its sanctuary. 

A faint saltiness hung in the air, and though it must have been nearly noon, it was dark, drawing a shiver up Anduin’s spine that jostled Wrathion’s chin from his neck and earned a soft grunt of confusion. 

Reaching down, he gave the dragon’s hand a squeeze. Wrathion blinked, and the red glow of his eyes dissipated, leaving the two in an even deeper, colorless shadow.

“My father’s _greatest accomplishment_ ,” Tess muttered, before her thick, dark hair ducked away into the mists.

“It’s...ah, it’s something,” Anduin called out in response, earning a grunt and a mirthless chuckle from somewhere in the hoary cloud.

“Heh, that’s one way to put it. It took my father twenty years to realize that isolating our kingdom might not end the way he thought it—”

 _Crack._ A gunshot cut through the fog on their left. _Thud._ Something dull and heavy hit the grass, so close the dust that scattered hissed against the trunk of a nearby tree. 

Their horse startled, neighing, then pedaling back at an awkward angle. Anduin’s hands flew to the reins and Wrathion’s arms tightened around his middle, but their saddle slipped to the right, threatening to send them tumbling to the earth. 

Sucking in his abdomen and tightening his slender legs around the horse’s barrel, Anduin called on every riding lesson he had ever been given at the Keep, checking the angle of his hips, the weight placed on his backside. Wrathion, meanwhile, let out a steamy huff and clamored for purchase on his coat. 

Tess circled back, withdrawing her gun and pointing it into the forest. Fahrad dismounted and approached with his daggers out. 

A loud laugh shook the branches beside them, followed by a rustling that showered needles onto the older dragon’s leather boots. 

“Got it!” Someone called from beyond. “Nice shot!” 

A pair of antlers emerged from the mists, followed by loose, blond locks. The figure straightened, readjusting the bloody corpse of a buck he had draped over his shoulders. His blue eyes fell upon Anduin, and they widened. A confused grin spread across his handsome face. 

“Anduin?” The man asked. “Anduin Wrynn? What in Light’s name are you doing h—?”

“Prince Menethil,” Tess cut him off, nudging her stallion’s snout between him and the two mounted boys. A slight quiver passed through her voice, but she swallowed it, reclaiming her usual resolve. “What a pleasant surprise to see you this far south. Surely the hunting is better where the skies are clearer.”

“Yes, of course, but the company is so much worse,” the older prince chuckled. His eyes remained fixed on Anduin’s face, thick blond brows knitting together and lips twitching in an ever-widening smile. 

“Anduin Llane Wrynn.” He took a step forward, readjusting the hooves draped over his arm. “I’m sorry matters in the north kept me from your party. I wanted to be there, but my father—”

Another pair of feet trudged through the forest ahead of them. Anduin straightened, and, when jostled, the dragon behind him cleared his throat and extended a hand. 

“Prince Arthas Menethil,” Wrathion drawled, “What an honor to make your acquaintance.”

“Tess?” The second figure emerged, taller and thinner than the first, with a tuft of red hair jutting from the tip of his chin. “Tess, what is the meaning of th—?”

“Liam.” The princess swung her leg off her horse and dismounted, barely making a sound when her boots hit the ground. “Your Highness. This is King Anduin Wrynn of Stormwind and his intended, Lord Wrathion Prestor. They have come to Gilneas for a royal visit. I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting to find you this side of the wall.”

Liam tensed at her words, readjusting the cravat pinned at the base of his throat. Arthas’ stare moved from Anduin to the boy seated at his back, and his expression changed. His smile wavered, and his brows parted to shoot up under his bangs. 

Any joy Anduin had felt at hearing Wrathion called his intended plummeted at the look that marred Arthas’ features: bewilderment, a curl of his upper lip, a suspicious glance shot at Fahrad, who had approached to hold out an uneasy hand. 

“Lord Prestor, you said?” Arthas managed. “What a surprise.”

“Indeed,” Wrathion tilted his chin. While Anduin’s clammy hand rushed to clutch Wrathion’s fingers at his waist, the dragon gave off an air of indifference. He unfurled his free hand and extended it with a flourish. The prince took it, shaking it, then reaching for Fahrad’s below.

“And you must be—?”

“Wrathion’s father. Call me Fahrad. There’s no need for formalities with me.”

“Fahrad.” The prince cleared his throat. “ I know a Katrana Prestor down in Stormwind, but I don’t think I’ve met the two of you before now.”

“Heh.” Fahrad let out a curt laugh between tightly clenched teeth. “You wouldn’t have. My son and I, we keep to ourselves. Uh, until he caught the king’s eye, I mean…”

“I see.”

Shifting forward and turning at the waist, Anduin shot Wrathion a helpless look. His boyfriend’s bright smile should have soothed him, but instead it left him weak—chilled, even, like he was watching a city burn to the ground while everyone else carried on with their lives. 

Needing something to distract his rushing thoughts, he tore his gaze away and towards the Greymane brother and sister. The red haired man had sidled up beside Tess, his lips forming words Anduin couldn’t hear, but he could read:

“Does Father know you’ve done this?”

“Father,” Tess replied with a shrug, “Said he wanted to strengthen our ties to the kingdoms.”

“Not like this, Tess. Not surprise visits from the king—”

“Liam.” Arthas turned on his steel-plated heels. “Not to crash on your doorstep, my friend, but the weather is terrible, and there’s much I’d like to discuss with my godson. What do you say? Surely if there’s room for four, they’ll be room for five. It’s high time we shared a bottle of Gilnean whiskey again.”

“I certainly like the sound of that,” Wrathion tittered, not waiting for the Gilnean prince to reply. “Please, lead the way, Princess Greymane. With any luck, we’ll make it to your father before pre-dinner drinks.”

“I like the way Lord Prestor here thinks.” Prince Menethil let out another boisterous laugh. He adjusted the buck slung around his neck and nudged Liam with his elbow, stepping around him and into the fog shrouding their path. 

“Come, let’s show this southerner a good time. Your father can’t begrudge our visit when we’re bringing fresh venison for supper.”

After hesitating, and casting a guarded look in Anduin’s direction, Liam lowered his head, walked around his sister’s horse, and disappeared through the veil. The party followed the men at a stroll, through the forest, to an empty stable where they penned their horses, and into the guard office that served as the only point of entry to the walled kingdom on the cliffs by the sea.

* * *

The Greymanes’ parlor reminded Wrathion of the hunting lodges he had read about in his father’s novels. With a high ceiling vaulted by exposed beams and racks of antlers hung at every juncture, it was difficult to believe they were seated in a palace at a royal gathering. There was a thick, earthy smell that pervaded the leather armchairs, and a dampness the roaring fire couldn’t chase away. 

The occasional foghorn hummed in the distance, and if Wrathion strained his ears, he could make out the crack of waves against stone through lulls in their conversation.

If he were being totally honest with himself, the only thing about the gathering that truly felt noble was the tense way the figures seated around him sat back in their seats. On his left, Anduin squirmed with his hands clenched in his lap. The man seated on his other side, Prince Menethil, with his wispy blond hair and keen eyes, reclined with his arms splayed across the carved sofa back.

Anduin had called this man his godfather, but nothing about their interaction felt fatherly in the slightest. With every loud laugh the older noble let out, Anduin straightened an inch or two in his seat. When the man nudged his shoulder, the young king strained to keep the smile on his face. 

At the other end of the room, huddled by the fire, Wrathion’s own father and King Greymane looked equally ill-at-ease. A serious frown lined the pallid monarch’s face, and a crease deepened between Fahrad’s thick brows with every word they exchanged. The circles under his eyes grew darker, though, Wrathion noted, this could have been caused by flames that had burned the logs down to embers. 

Across from him, with a tumbler clenched at his chest, Liam Greymane glanced to the side, as if he didn’t know where to look. When Wrathion opened his mouth, the redhead angled away from him, listening with feigned attention to the story pouring from Arthas’ lips. Something about Anduin’s father, a tournament that lasted three days, dueling practice out by the stables. 

After an uneasy laugh, Anduin shifted, spreading his legs so their knees rested gently together. Wrathion let his hand fall into the gap between their hips and brushed the king’s outer thigh with his nail. 

Anduin nodded; his shoulder relaxed, and his arm tumbled open in Wrathion’s lap. Both princes glanced down at it, and their lips pursed, but neither said anything. Reaching over to the end table for his glass and bringing it to his lips, the dragon met their stares with what he hoped was a confident smirk. 

Arthas arched a brow, but continued. Anduin turned his wrist until his palm rested against the top of Wrathion’s knee. 

“Anyways,” Arthas continued after clearing his throat. “Your father was always great with a broadsword. One of the best, in fact. It’s a shame he isn’t around to teach you.”

“It is, yes,” Anduin answered, carefully choosing his words. “But I assure you, Bolvar Fordragon and my other teachers are more than capable.”

“Fordragon,” Arthas repeated, glancing over his shoulder at Liam. “One of the smaller houses down in Stormwind. Lord Bolvar joined up with the Silver Hand before the Second War, but when his father died in the sacking of Stormwind, he returned south to take up his duties. A true hero, I’ve heard. I’m relieved your father left you in capable hands.”

“Lord Fordragon has been a blessing from the Light. Without him, I’m not sure I could have handled all the challenges the throne has brought me—”

“—And all the nobles vying for power, I should expect,” Arthas prompted. His eyes flicked in Wrathion’s direction, but the dragon pretended not to notice. 

“That other advisor, Lady Katrana. What house was she from again? Prestor, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Wrathion replied with a shrug, before Anduin had to repeat himself. “That would be my Auntie, though the two of us are distant at best. I hope she hasn’t left a foul impression of my family. To say she’s eccentric would be putting it mildly.”

“She seemed capable enough to me,” Arthas countered. 

Anduin watched him out of the corner of his eye, giving his knee a reassuring squeeze. He tilted his head in the king’s direction. Anduin offered the ghost of a smile. 

Arthas leaned back, crossing a leg over his ankle and musing, more to himself and Liam than to the boys, “The last time I was down in Stormwind she was running the court like clockwork, timed visits and pre-arranged statements. Nothing like my father, or yours.”

“Every kingdom has their own way of doing things,” Liam replied, though the rise in his voice at the end of the statement made it sound more like a question.

“Indeed. She just seems the type who knows how to get things done. With her, uh, _family member_ here engaged to the king, I’m surprised there wasn’t more fanfare ahead of your visit.”

“We wanted to take it easy. Before Wrathion and I get married, I mean. I have two years, and I’d like to see the world before my regent steps down. You know, while I still can.”

Whatever tension had been building in the air unfurled as Arthas let out a loud laugh. “Now that’s something I can understand,” he declared, tipping his empty tumbler in Anduin’s direction. “Good for you. And I’ve gotta say, you couldn’t have come at a better time. The snows are just about melted in Lordaeron this month, and the wildflowers should be coming out ahead of your visit.”

Wrathion’s mouth snapped closed. He tried to catch Anduin’s eye, but the king’s attention was occupied by the full glass of whiskey clenched in his free hand. He swished it and stared into its deep amber contents. His brows furrowed, and his lips parted, working up to another small sip. 

Exhaling, Wrathion set his own tumbler aside and looked to his father by the fire. His ears perked up to make out their muttering. Whatever Genn Greymane had just finished saying had left the dragon a few shades paler. 

“There’s nothing untoward, I assure you,” Fahrad responded after a pause. “I don’t blame you for your concern, but really—”

“Concerned?” The Gilnean’s jaw tightened. “I’m not concerned in the least. I couldn’t care less what you two get on with, as long as you promise to make an honest woman out of her—”

“I’m flattered, your Majesty, truly, but I lost my wife, Wrathion’s mother, just two years ago, and besides, I’m hardly a match for someone like Tess. She’s a princess; I’m a mid-ranking lord. I don’t think—”

Wrathion’s eyes flew open, so stunned he almost dropped their glamour and revealed their true light to the room. Blinking and fumbling for his glass, he brought it back to his mouth and downed it in a single gulp. 

His father’s features contorted; Wrathion doubted there was enough whiskey in all of Gilneas to stave off the frown that twisted his lips.

“At least tell me you’ll think about it.” King Greymane leaned in, obscuring his face from view. “You could take her with you to Stormwind. To have a woman by your side in a foreign court would be nice, you have to admit.”

“I...Of course—”

As if on cue, the heavy wooden door to the parlor swung open, and Tess stepped in wearing a black wool dress that dragged on the floor. At the sound of her footsteps, her father lifted his head and raised a hand, calling her name with a wave. 

“Ah, Tess, hello. Has your mother sent you to play us a song?”

“There is something I’d like to show Wrathion in the tower, if it’s not too much of an interruption.”

The dragon quirked a brow, leaning back to stare at the princess poised behind the sofa. Anduin shifted and glanced between them, but the question forming on his lips never got out. 

With a grunt, King Greymane gave them a dismissive wave; Wrathion set down his empty tumbler and rose. Trailing on Tess’ heels, the dragon cast one last glance over his shoulder at Anduin’s pale blond head, then slipped out into the hall.

She reached past him and shut the door. As soon as they were out of earshot, he asked, with a bewildered laugh clawing at the back of his throat, “So I suppose you heard that.”

“I didn’t, and I have no desire to. I need you for something else. I promise it won’t take long.”

From the steady pitch of her voice, Wrathion knew their words were meant to be overheard. He inclined his head in her direction, falling into step at her side. “Lead the way, your Highness,” he declared, as they crossed from one thick, woven red runner to the next, their heels clicking twice against the wooden floorboards that lay between.

A pair of portraits with soulless gray eyes watched them round the bend and cross into an adjacent hall. The doors here were smaller and less ornate. In place of candelabras, simple torches perched on the white stucco walls. They crossed in front of a guard, who nodded at Tess and stepped to the side. She opened the door that had stood behind him, revealing a rickety spiral staircase disappearing up into darkness. 

Her slender hand reached for a knob on the wall, sparking the lamp waiting on the ledge. She took it, and Wrathion eased closed the door behind him. As soon as they were alone, she snatched up her skirt with her free hand and took off, climbing the stairs two at a time.

Wrathion had to fight to keep up with her footfalls, his own shorter legs straining to accommodate the distance. “So, are you going to tell me what this is really about?” He chuckled, after about three turns up the tower. 

She glanced over her shoulder, holding her light aloft. “What do you know about Prince Arthas Menethil?”

“Ah, let’s see. The most powerful monarch in the north, second only to the kingdom of Stormwind. Enjoys hunting and sport, and has remained a bachelor since Lady Proudmoore broke off their engagement a decade ago. Anduin’s godfather, apparently.”

“And an esteemed member of the Silver Hand,” Tess added. “You missed that part.”

“Oh.” Wrathion stopped, his hand tightening around the rail. Of course, he had even _mentioned_ it. Had the whiskey gone to his head? Furrowing his brows and giving his head a shake, he chased away any lingering blur at the edges of his vision. The rush of adrenaline that shot through him cleared his head. 

“Fuck,” he muttered. 

Tess leaned over the rail, staring down at him. “Yeah.”

“Fucking Light.”

“Exactly.”

“But he doesn’t seem to—?”

“No, as far as I can tell. My brother said the two of them met in Dalaran, and have been hunting from a cabin that belongs to the Menethils for the past four days. If any word has come to Arthas from the Knights, it is waiting for him in Lordaeron.”

“So we’re safe,” Wrathion tried, after taking the final few steps and emerging into a dusty room. 

“Not exactly.” As soon as he had arrived, Tess hurried to a ladder. She hung her lamp on a peg, and reached for a rung halfway up, tugging up her own weight and that of her heavy wool dress. Wrathion waited for her to reach the hatch on the ceiling, then followed, choosing a lower rung and slotting his curled-toed boots through the gap. 

He scaled it. The princess offered him a hand, but he shook his head, pulling himself through the hole and out into the cold air. He dusted off his hands on his trousers, and gazed out over darkening streets, past gables and chimneys, and to the turbulent sea, licking out from a blanket of fog. 

Sighing, he leaned on the railing, and waited for the princess to continue. She crossed her arms and leaned against a box in the opposite corner. 

Its residents croaked, ruffling their feathers, and clicking their beaks in disapproval. Wrathion arched a brow. She offered no acknowledgment to the birds perched inside—at least for now.

Instead, her attention returned to the matter at hand. Her gray eyes narrowed, and her thin lips pressed into a line. “He wants the two of you to come to Lordaeron.”

The dragon had put the pieces together on their final climb, but he still hated hearing them spoken. “Indeed. As soon as possible, from the way he’s been speaking to Anduin.”

“And even if he weren’t a member of the Order himself, Lordaeron is overrun by paladins.”

“So I have heard. It seems Gilneas is the only city that isn’t.”

“Not from any lack of trying on their part, either, but that’s another matter entirely.”

The dragon nudged the wood floor with his heel, letting out a long sigh. “How long do you think we have?”

“In truth? I’m not sure I’d risk staying another day.”

“Light damn it…” Wrathion trailed off. A cool wind swept up his neck and ruffled his curls. He shoved his fingers through them to smooth them back, his gold bracelets jangling against his temple. “So we leave tomorrow morning.”

“Tonight.”

“And go, where? Stromgarde? The Knights of the Silver Hand have a foothold there, too.”

“You go to Menethil Harbor. A boat will be waiting there that can carry you back to Stormwind.”

“Excuse me?”

Tess’ brows relaxed, the lines between them softening. She pushed off from the raven coop and reached into the pocket of her gown, withdrawing two tightly-wrapped parchment scrolls. 

“I’ve taken the liberty of writing a letter to Ironforge announcing the king’s arrival tomorrow afternoon. I hope this will draw attention away from Stormwind Harbor and towards the tram joining Anduin’s city with theirs.”

Wrathion nodded, letting out a low hum of approval. Creating a diversion made sense, but on the other hand, what were they to do when they arrived and—?

“Bolvar’s daughter, Taelia Fordragon, sent me a letter that I received this afternoon. She has departed Stormwind and will be in Menethil Harbor waiting for passage to Kul Tiras tomorrow morning. The second letter—” She held up the scrolls—“is for her, asking her to wait. She’ll know how to reach her father discreetly, and put a stop to this search. With the Knights on your side, you can focus on dealing with your aunt.”

The dragon straightened, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. His father’s apprentice truly did think of everything. He had chosen her well, and wisely. In a flash, his thoughts turned to his father huddled beside Genn at the hearth, paling with every word the aging king muttered. His father had always hated nobles, always hated these kinds of events. The sooner they left the city and settled matters in Stormwind, the better. 

The longer they languished, the greater the risk that they would slip and reveal one secret or another. It was a risk they simply couldn’t take. 

Pushing off from the railing, Wrathion approached the princess, gazing up at her with a genuine grin. “It seems you have thought of everything, your Highness. But how will we escape unnoticed. Surely there are guards stationed at the wall, and with the worgen attacks—”

“Before leaving for Stormwind, I helped my brother install the alarm your father purchased from the gnomes. We have been using it to signal what my father likes to call the ‘wild animal’ sightings.” She snorted: a cold, humorless sound. Wrathion’s eyes strayed to the ravens, shuffling together on their branch, their inky black bodies moving as one.

After clearing her throat, she continued in a steadier voice. “Shortly after midnight, I will trip the alarm. While everyone rushes to the main hall, the three of you can flee to the lighthouse on the cliff. Menethil Harbor is a straight shot if you fly due south from there.”

“Fly,” Wrathion repeated. Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of that?

“You are dragons, are you not?” The princess must have noticed his reaction, for her expression softened, and the frown on her lips yielded to a gentle smirk. She placed the scrolls on top of the coop, and reached for his shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze.

Their eyes met. Wrathion swallowed, and the tightness that had gripped the pit of his stomach started to relent. She patted his arm, and for a moment, he wondered if this was what it was like to have a sibling. 

With a final nod, she released her hold and turned to the coop. After opening the front, she chose a raven and tied the first scroll to its foot before sending it off with a flick of her wrist. The second nipped her exposed finger, but came after she shoved her knuckles under its talons. Affixing the second message to its ankle, she stepped around Wrathion and to the south-facing window, staring over the gray harbor at a lighthouse cutting through the fog in the distance.

Her forehead creased in concentration, and she let out a gentle sigh. After releasing the bird, she turned to Wrathion, and added, like some kind of afterthought. “I have something I’d like you to take to Taelia. A personal favor. She wanted me to meet her tonight. I couldn’t. It’s the least I can do to send her my word.”

“Of course.” Wrathion took a step forward. This time, it was he who reached up and gave her upper arm a pat. She looked down at his hand and smiled. He thought back to the spectacle she had created at the royal tournament and had to choke down his laugh. 

“Thank you, Tess, for everything. For being an ally to my father, and a friend to me. I will never forget this.”

“I should hope not,” she answered. Her tone was cool, but her eyes sparkled with a playfulness he had rarely seen from her. “I hope you remember, when you’re sitting on the throne in Stormwind, and my father is here going mad with denial.”

“I most certainly will. Don’t you worry, your Highness.” Wrathion’s reply came easily, but he didn’t let his mind stick on the details. Sitting on the throne in Stormwind...yes, that was where they were headed, he supposed. He had been with the king, intimately. He shouldn’t be surprised by the thought, and yet...if he were being honest, it felt like a forbidden path, a gate that should remain locked. 

That was his Auntie’s goal, his Auntie’s dream, and he was still bound to her name. He was still a dragon, and no matter what happened in Stormwind, that fact would be difficult to get around.

He remained enmired in thought as he followed Tess down the ladder and onto the winding wood stairs. He stared down at the tips of his shoes as they took the steps two at a time. This time, he barely noticed how long they walked before reaching the door that led to the heart of the manor. 

They parted ways after entering the main hallway. Wrathion crossed from one rug to the next and arrived at the parlor door. He turned the handle, and eased it open slowly enough to avoid making a sound.

Warm light poured across the threshold and onto his windswept cheeks. Nobody lifted a head when he entered, and, relieved, he turned to ensure the door closed as deftly as it had opened. 

From the sofa in the center of the room, Anduin’s voice picked up, jumping an octave higher than usual. “It’s fine, though, really, Arthas. I promise it’s fine.”

“I just find it hard to believe you would choose...well, it isn’t my place.” Arthas shook his blond head. Wrathion clenched his jaw and held his breath. 

“I just find it coincidental. If someone is pressuring you, or if this was arranged behind closed doors, I just want you to know—”

“It wasn’t. Wrathion was one suitor of many, and I chose _him_ , because I like _him_.”

“—Your father always swore he would die before he saw you in an arranged marriage. It’s one of the few things he and your mother agreed on—”

“—And that isn’t what this is, really. I swear to the Light. I love Wrathion. I’m in love with Wr—”

The board under the dragon’s foot squeaked when he shifted his weight. The sound drew the attention not only of Arthas, Liam, and Anduin, but also of his father and Genn, who had stepped out to smoke on the balcony. 

Heat flooded his cheeks, and with a flash, he wished he had simply announced his presence at the door. The way Anduin’s face paled when their eyes met only solidified his regret. 

Clearing his throat and willing his knees not to quiver, he stepped to the back of the sofa and dropped his hand to Anduin’s shoulder. His gaze moved to the table, to the king’s empty whiskey glass and the empty bottle standing behind it. Finally, his eyes flicked to Arthas’ face and he forced a smile that ached at the corners of his mouth. 

Every muscle in his neck tightened as he forced his voice to steady. “Ah, sorry about that. Princess Tess wanted to show me the dress she’ll be wearing to supper. I do hope I haven’t missed anything important.”

Arthas squared his shoulders and leaned into the back of his chair. Liam averted his eyes, and under his palm, Anduin’s shoulder tensed, then relaxed as he brushed the end of his nail gently against it. 

“No, not really,” Anduin blurted out, his words tumbling together. “I’m excited for supper, though. I can’t wait to see what Princess Tess and her mother have in store.”

* * *

At ten past midnight, as Tess had promised, the alarm’s wail filled the courtyards of Greymane manor. Wrathion rose, already dressed, from bed, scooped up his bag, and joined his boyfriend in the doorway. Across the hall, his father stepped out of the room Genn Greymane had assigned to Anduin, a determined glint in his eye and a coat draped over his riding leathers.

Without a word, they joined the stream of hustling servants and lesser nobles trampling each other’s feet down the stairs. Rather than stepping onto the ground floor landing with the rest of them, they continued, as the princess had instructed, into a dank, lightless cellar below. At one end of the hall, a door slammed open, and two cooks shoved their hands into their food-stained aprons. They jostled around the small party, but thankfully didn’t ask where the group was headed. The tips of their noses were red, and one faltered on the second stair, his steps shaken by whatever the two had been drinking when the sirens started. 

Ducking into Fahrad’s shadow, the boys followed him along the wall, to a door with a rusted handle. The older dragon drove his shoulder into it until it popped free from its latch. Wrathion reached for Anduin’s hand, lacing their fingers together and leading him up the earthen stairs. They stepped into the starless night. 

“I hope Arthas doesn’t send word when he realizes we’re missing,” Anduin whispered as they rushed into the fog. 

“I doubt he will. Tess intends to tell him we feared for your safety and evacuated you to Ravenholdt Manor. By the time he checks there, we will be gone, likely already back in Stormwind.”

Anduin nodded, giving his hand a slight squeeze. “All right,” he murmured. “And when we’re back in Stormwind, Bolvar and I can set the record straight about you, okay?”

“I would appreciate it, yes,” Wrathion admitted. “But come, we best keep our voices down, at least until we’ve made it off the manor grounds.”

Anduin pursed his lips, but Wrathion felt affirmation in the way he shifted his weight. Letting down the glamour on his eyes, he used their light to follow Fahrad’s red hair through the fog. 

They had left the estate through a door behind its eastern wall and now rushed down a cobblestone path lined by rose bushes. A thorn caught Wrathion’s sleeve as he rounded a corner, but he pulled it free, snagging the silk in the process. He tucked his hand under his opposite elbow and tugged the king closer to prevent him from making the same mistake. 

After passing under a wrought-iron arch twisting eerily up into nothingness, they met a heath interspersed by boulders that seemed to grow taller the longer they ran. The road dipped. Anduin’s breath grew ragged; Wrathion’s arm rose to make up for the growing gap between them. 

A glimmer of light cut through the fog up ahead, and the moor grass yielded to a pile of stones. At their peak towered a graystone pillar topped by a lamp refracting light off a revolving mirror. 

Brininess clung to the moisture in the air. Waves crashed against the rocks below, making the earth rumble beneath Wrathion’s feet. 

It distracted him from the rogue in front of him until he abruptly stopped and held out an arm. Wrathion and Anduin paused. On the rocks above, a door squeaked open. 

Someone spat on the ground and grunted, “‘Ey, you beast, don’t think I didn’t see those beady red eyes. Think you could come mess with old Harold, didya?”

Wrathion’s heart stopped. A gun cocked, and he squeezed closed his eyes, containing their light behind his spell. Had it been too late?

A shudder passed down Anduin’s arm and shook their tightly-clenched hands. It was as if the air had been sucked from Wrathion’s lungs. He opened his mouth, but his throat twisted closed. He willed his feet to move, but his locked knees buckled. 

Harold took a step closer to the ledge, his boots squeaking when he shifted his weight. Anduin leaned against him, and then a hand shot out from fog and caught Wrathion by the collar. 

He stumbled, and Anduin with him, but Fahrad didn’t stop to let them catch their footing. Instead, he dragged them to the side, around a boulder, and down a narrow path cut through clumps of seagrass. The sand underneath was loose, pouring down between their feet with the weight of their steps. 

On the last stretch, Anduin’s legs slipped out from underneath him, and he skidded on his back., digging his fingers into Wrathion’s calves and knocking him forward into Fahrad. As the human mumbled an apology against the back of his thigh, the older dragon turned, shaking his head and pressing a finger to his lips. 

Through the blood rushing in Wrathion’s ears, he could still make out the squeak of the light keeper’s boots, and the hiss in his voice as he muttered, “Ey? Who is it? Some kind of trick, eh? You pulling a fast one on me?”

There was nowhere to go but down. Fahrad sprung forward into the fog and transformed, beating his wings and swirling the mists around them. With his heart in his throat, Wrathion followed, shifting into his true form and landing in Anduin’s lap. He skittered up his arm, then around his neck, whispering against the shell of his ear. 

“Get up, my dear. You need to jump.”

He could smell the terror in the human’s sweat, feel it as it shot up to shake his shoulders. Anduin’s hands flew to the grass, but his fingers slipped, failing to find purchase. On the second attempt, something warm and soothing wrapped around them, propelling them forward and into the air, leaving a trail of gold light in their wake. 

They landed against Fahrad’s scaly back with a thud. Wrathion loosened his grip on Anduin’s skin and tangled his claws, instead, in the rumbled white linen of his now-moist collar.

Bowing forward, the king buried his face in Fahrad’s black crest. They plummeted until seafoam sputtered against Wrathion’s scales, and then swept forward, into the mists, between two rocks, and up into the gray blanket draped overhead. 

After a few sightless moments, they broke through, rising vertically into the starry sky. Though it had been shrouded in fog over Greymane Manor, the moon, it turned out, was full: watchful, even, as the large dragon flapped his wings and settled into a horizontal position. 

It took a few moments for Anduin to stop clinging to Fahrad’s neck, and longer still for him to push himself upright, but when he did, Wrathion slid down his arm and settled into the crook of his lap. He curled in on himself, listening to his father’s large heart pounding beneath him and Anduin’s pulse racing down the insides of his legs. 

His own claws clenched, and he shook his small, draconic head. It wouldn’t do to think how close they had come to death. Their journey wasn’t over, and Wrathion suspected, the road ahead might prove to be even more perilous. 

If only he could spare the king another brush with death, another second spent on the run, he would have done so, no matter the consequences. But unfortunately, his Auntie had never left room for them to make that choice. As long as she lived, Anduin and his kingdom were in danger.

A rock and a hard place, Wrathion had heard it called, though given the freshness of wings narrowly missing two boulders, he decided to do without the metaphor. He let out a small groan and nudged his snout against Anduin’s leg. The king replied by cupping his head with a clammy palm. 

Leaning into that pressure, he squeezed closed his tiny eyes and directed a prayer to whatever force had flung the human and him off the cliff. The Light, he guessed with a smoky snort. He had never put stock in the Light, but if it was there for Anduin...well, he supposed he could make peace with it, too.


	6. Part VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some darker themes and a (minor) character death in this chapter. Just a heads up if that's something that bothers you!

The bright morning sun reflected off the choppy waves lapping at the seawall surrounding Menethil Harbor. Anduin had to squint and cup his hand over his eyes to make out the names of taverns and stores on wooden signs hanging over the cobblestone street. A salty breeze sent them swinging, and he gave up, slipping his arm around Wrathion’s waist and tilting down his chin, studying the uneven stones passing beneath their boots with every step.

On Wrathion’s other side, Fahrad rolled his shoulder, pressing his elbow up until his back cracked. He didn’t look out of place in the throng of hungover sailors and sleepy merchants pouring onto the docks, despite the inhuman form he had worn not thirty minutes prior when they landed in the mountains to the north.

Even the totter in his step might pass for lingering drunkenness, Anduin thought. Of course, he knew it was scrapes he had weathered when his talon caught on a rocky outcropping—scrapes Anduin had offered to heal—that plagued his step. It would be an easy fix, he had insisted, but the older man had shaken his scaly head, shifting with a casual wave of his hand the moment Anduin and Wrathion had fully dismounted from his back. 

Maybe by the time they had made it to the ship, he would have had enough of bleeding through his sock and Anduin would be able to talk some sense into him. For now, the king leaned against Wrathion’s side and willed his shoulders to relax. 

Two tavern maids left the bar in front of them, their cotton skirts sweeping across the stones and their aprons bouncing slightly with the spring in their steps. They giggled, and Anduin nervously glanced up. Their eyes met, and he realized they were beaming at him and Wrathion, the supportive smiles on their lips lighting their eyes. 

“Aye, to be in love like that,” one of them chuckled and gave her friend’s leathery upper arm a sympathetic pat. 

A faint blush rose to Anduin’s cheeks, but he managed to maintain his smile. Giving Wrathion’s waist a squeeze, he glanced at him. The bright sun shimmered on his dark skin and played on the spirals in his thick brown hair. Anduin’s heart leapt, and Wrathion flashed him an unhindered smile. Is this how it felt to be two normal lovers, walking side by side down the street with nothing to worry about except who would be the one to steal a kiss under the gables?

Anduin might have done it, but when he leaned in, a bell jangled in the distance, yanking him into the present moment. 

“Is that the boat?” He asked, furrowing his brows to make out its masts through the morning glare. 

“It should be, yeah,” Fahrad nodded. 

“Oh dear,” Wrathion heaved a sigh, clearly put on for dramatic effect. “And here I had hoped to stop for breakfast at one of these charming little taverns.”

“It’s going to be hardtack and dried fish for us, I’m afraid.” Fahrad let out a hardy laugh. “Unless this Kul Tiran girl you told me about has any Boralan blood sausage stashed away.”

“Oh. She’s from Stormwind, actually. Originally,” Anduin clarified. “Her father sent her away to Boralus to live with the Proudmoores. He had a lot going on at home, I think, from training as a paladin to sitting on councils, and, ah...mentoring me.”

An unexpected pang shot through Anduin’s chest. Bolvar had sacrificed his relationship with his own daughter to raise _him_ after his father’s passing. He hoped Taelia didn’t resent him. She always looked so cheerful and happy to be in his presence, but was it all an act put on for her father...or for her king? 

He hated how much he was asking of her, to turn back with them and face whatever horrors Katrana had waiting. He drew his lips into a line and shifted his weight. The slight change in his posture drew Wrathion’s attention, and the dragon leaned in, tilting his head and readying a whisper—

A pair of plate boots hit the dock in front of them with a thud that quivered through the weathered wooden planks beneath their feet. Anduin lifted his chin and shielded his eyes, making out the silhouette of a sturdy young woman with cropped brown hair and copper skin. The clenching in his heart lessened, but didn’t fully relax, when he met her soft olive eyes. 

Her grin widened. She slung her leather rucksack higher on her shoulder and waved, her face bright in the brilliant morning sun. “Oh, tides, I should’ve known—!”

“Taelia.” He unwound his arm from Wrathion’s waist and offered a gentle bow. She returned it by bounding over to him, hair bouncing and the buckles on her bag clanging together in her haste. 

“Tess told me to book a return trip to Stormwind, but why—?” She cut herself off, licking her lips and glancing down the dock to their left. “Father has been out of his mind with worry, you know. Says he doesn’t know if you’ll ever come back, or what they’ve done with…”

It was as if the warrior were seeing Wrathion for the first time. Her gaze settled on him, then sharpened, and she stood up an inch or two straighter with her hand clenching the strap of her rucksack. Shifting to step between her and the dragons, Anduin opened his mouth and extended a hand. 

Before he could react, Wrathion stepped around his right side and fell into a deep bow, his bracelets slipping out from his purple silk tunic to jangle at his wrist with the flourish of his gesture. “Miss Fordragon,” he greeted with the same charm he had used on her back at the tournament.

Although her brows arched, her lips remained set in a line. Undeterred, Wrathion slid a deft hand into his pocket and extracted something that caught the sun’s blinding light. After a tentative glance, Anduin recognized it as a silver dagger, adorned with the twisting stem of a rose opening to a blossom at the end of its hilt. Its sheath was black leather, with a silver stripe running down its center.

Affixed to it was a scrap of parchment, tightly rolled, and tied with a gray satin bow. 

Unfolding his fingers, Wrathion held it out to her. Her expression softened, and she reached for it, cupping her calloused palm over the dragon’s softer and thinner one and scooping it up, pressing it to her chestplate. It was hard to tell under the glare of the sun, but Anduin could have sworn he saw a blush blossom on her warm cheeks. 

Wrathion must have noticed it, too, for his smile widened and he continued with renewed vigor, “Everything is explained in there, I believe, though of course I didn’t read it. If you have any further questions, we can discuss it in the safety of our quarters.”

“We’re getting a room?” Taelia asked, slowly, trailing off at the end to turn to Fahrad. 

“Indeed we are,” the older dragon replied with a pat to the coin purse secured at his hip. “Lord Fahrad Prestor, Lady Fordragon. Wrathion’s father. Since you seem to know your way around the shipyard, maybe you can help me out. Do I buy our tickets on the dock, or somewhere on the boat?”

“Oh, yes, the boat!” She took a step back, glancing over her shoulder towards the nearest mast, which had been unfurled to reveal a golden lion situated in a field of yellowed linen, frayed at the edges. Beneath it, a group of sailors leaned against the railing with their arms crossed. One chewed a wad of tobacco, while another pointed up at the mountains, regaling them with a story that didn’t seem to interest anyone but him.

Glazed over, empty faces looked past him. These were men of Stormwind, but for one reason or another, they didn’t know his face. It was for the best, really, he decided as he ducked into Taelia’s shadow and followed her up the gangplank. 

Behind him, Wrathion rested a light hand against his hip. The dark water beneath them lapped at the barnacle-crusted pillars of the dock, filling the air with a salty scent almost palpable on the tip on Anduin’s tongue. By the time they reached the deck, however, its headiness had dissipated, replaced by the pleasanter smell of wood, freshly brewed coffee, and a pile of clean cotton sheets being folded by a portly woman with bright red hair. 

“Aye, sir, good morning to ya.” She leaned to the side to address Fahrad, before turning her eyes upon Taelia. “And you, miss. Couldn’t get enough of us, yeah?”

“Something like that.” Taelia matched her singsong tone. The two boys took the opportunity to step out from behind her, into the shadow of an overhang which led to the ship’s main stairwell. 

If the maid noticed them, she didn’t stop to ask what they were up to, instead drawing out a length of cloth and folding it in front of her. Her torn leather boot tapped a gentle rhythm against the wood floor, and her eyes sparkled in rays of light streaming down on her face. “If ya want the ticket master, he’s on the bridge just over there.” She paused her folding to jab a chapped finger towards the other raised portion of the ship. “Fifty gold for a room, eighty five for a room and supper for four. Clam chowder tonight, freshly made with clams from the harbor. I highly recommend it.”

“Of course.” Fahrad smiled, stepping to Taelia’s left so he could offer the maid his hand. She didn’t take it, too focused on folding the sheet in her grasp one more time and setting it down on the pile behind her. 

Chuckling under her breath, Taelia gave Fahrad’s shoulder a tap, tilting her chin in the direction of the ship’s bridge. “All right, then, uncle,” she loudly proclaimed. “Let’s get things squared away with the ticket master. I’m sure you’ve had quite the ride from Lordaeron this morning. Best to get some rest before we put to sea and the water gets choppy.”

“Oh, yes.” Fahrad cleared his throat. “You’re right. Okay, then, Taelia, lead the way.”

From the doorway, Anduin craned his neck and watched the two leave, incredulous at how quickly Taelia had seized on a story and stuck to it, covering for them without being asked to. Taelia, Tess, Wrathion...they all had a certain wit about them: quick on their toes and street smart, in ways Anduin had never had to be.

Until now. Swallowing, he leaned back against a barrel in the entryway with Wrathion standing between his knees. His arms wrapped loosely around the dragon’s waist, and Taelia said something to Fahrad as she slid her rucksack off her shoulder and tucked away Tess’ dagger, the message tied to it still intact. 

Fahrad laughed in return, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. His gaze darted in their direction, and deep creases formed between his brows. Anduin had never seen him look as pallid as he did in the stark morning sun, and before turning away, he lingered for a moment on Anduin. His eyes unfocused, and his black pupils chased back the green that usually encircled them.

Anduin tightened his arms around Wrathion. After giving his head a slight shake, Fahrad swept back his auburn bangs and staggered to follow Taelia into the opposite doorway. When he disappeared, Anduin looked up at Wrathion, and frowned. 

“Is everything all right with your father?”

“Yes?” Wrathion answered with a faint lift in his voice. “I believe so. Why do you ask?”

“Oh.” Anduin stared at the gold embroidery down the front of Wrathion’s tunic, and mumbled, “He just...didn’t look well.”

“Ah, well, I suppose I wouldn’t look well, either, if I were bleeding into my shoes all morning and too stubborn to ask for help.”

“Oh, yeah.” Anduin’s shoulders relaxed, the tension that had tugged at the corners of his lips starting to loosen. “You’re probably right about that.”

“I know I’m right.” Wrathion shrugged and took another step closer. His long nails glided down Anduin’s face to cup his chin, tilting it up until the king was staring into his enchanted brown eyes. “My father is always foolish about such things, always keeps his troubles to himself when others are ready and willing to help him.”

“That sounds like someone else I know.” Anduin flashed him a smile that made his cheeks darken, and his lips part in unspoken protest. 

“But it’s okay,” the king quickly followed up his tease. “I do it, too. But now, we’re all in this together. We need to stick by each other, no matter what. That’s what I’m going to do, you know, Wrathion.”

From the brief jolt of surprise that crossed his face to the shifting of his weight that followed, it was clear the comment caught the dragon off guard, but he didn’t say as much, choosing instead to step forward and rest his hands against Anduin’s shoulders. 

Staring up into his eyes, the king opened his mouth to speak. A stray ray of sun caught on Wrathion’s curly hair and crossed his dark brown skin. He looked radiant, dazzling with a crown of light upon his brow. Even as Anduin struggled to catch his breath, the dragon dipped down, steadying his jaw and pressing their lips together in a hungry kiss. 

Anduin slid his hands up Wrathion’s back and pulled him closer. His knees fell open, and he scooted forward until the dragon’s legs pressed between his thighs. With his pulse racing in his ears and heat climbing up the back of his neck, he kissed until the world melted away and Wrathion’s hands landed on either side of the barrel beneath him.

“Anduin,” the dragon murmured against his lips. “I, well, there is something I have been meaning to tell you, about last night—”

Voices kicked up on the deck to their left: a hoot like an owl, then a whistle, high and shrill enough to snap the king to attention. Breaking the kiss, he turned and buried the side of his face against Wrathion’s chest. Two sailors leaned against the mast with broken-tooth grins on their sunburned faces. 

“‘Ey, love birds, no foolin’ around on deck. That’s on the captain’s orders, ya hear me?”

Blood rushed to Anduin’s face, but the tight hand that had wrapped around his heart loosened its grip. He hadn’t been recognized. He wasn’t being judged. They were just…teasing him and Wrathion, like they might tease any other merchant or champion kissing in the shade of the doorway. 

Luckily, Wrathion jumped in before Anduin could unstick his dry tongue from the floor of his mouth. He chuckled an easy chuckle, and pulled Anduin close to his chest, resting his palm against the back of his head to shield his face fully from view. 

“And we will be glad to carry on downstairs when your ticket master shows us our room. In the meantime, I am afraid you two will have to mind your own business.”

“And miss the show? Nah, I think not.” The younger of the two slapped his friend on his back, hard enough it made him stumble forward a pace. “Old Adam here’s got a pretty boy up in Southshore. Never leave your love behind, he always says, and yet here we are. Gotta find a bit of love where we can.”

“I—ah, I see.” Wrathion nodded and tightened his grip on Anduin’s head. His gold bangles jingled against the nape of Anduin’s neck, but the king fought the urge to shiver or otherwise react to the gentle tickle. When he finally chanced a glance back up at him, he found him with his jaw slightly slack.

His cheeks were bright, and deeper in color than they had been a moment before, and when their gazes crossed, Wrathion’s swiftly darted to the side. Whatever he had wanted to say had died on his lips. 

With a soft, encouraging smile, Anduin scooted closer, pressing his nose flush against the dragon’s slender abdomen. He breathed in the heady scent of patchouli cologne, and exhaled with a faint sigh that ruffled a stray gold string at the hem of Wrathion’s tunic. 

The sailors hooted again, but the king ignored them, choosing to focus instead on the hammering of Wrathion’s heart and the way his muscles tightened when Anduin settled against him.

* * *

“Agh, no!” Wrathion gasped, his slender hands hitting the mat across from Anduin with enough force to shake the floorboards. “That is impossible! Absolutely absurd. You humans are conspiring against me, I just know it!”

Face flush with the glow of the generous serving of rum he had consumed after dinner and curls rumbled by the many times he had swept his long nails through them, the dragon had abandoned his glamor to let his eyes burn crimson in the shadow of their bunk bed. Taelia took the change in appearance in stride, arching her brow but saying nothing further.

She scooped up the trio of dice in her hand and glanced between them, a smirk twitching at the corners of her lips when Anduin shrugged and looked down at his rapidly growing pile of dried apple rings. 

“Sorry about that, there, Wrathion.” She gave the dice a gentle shake in her palm, until they clacked together and her fingers tightened around them. “The curse of fates and all that. My friend Flynn back home once lost an entire month’s salary betting on Waycrest, you know. Bad luck, he calls them. Maybe you should go for Stormsong next time.”

“I think I’ll stay with Anchor,” Anduin chimed in, his own tongue loosened by drink. “It’s been treating me well tonight. I think I’ve found my stride.”

“You hardly need to rub it in, my dear,” Wrathion drawled, scowling at the bottom center of the mat, as if it had done him some personal wrong.

“You’re just lucky he isn’t playing for gold, Wrathion.” Fahrad snorted from his seat in the corner. Wrathion’s head whipped around, his thick curls bouncing off his shoulder—partially bare in the oversized linen sleep shirt they had bartered from the crew. The red glow of his gaze glistened on his sweat-soaked skin, before disappearing for a moment when he dramatically rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, but if we were playing for gold at least I wouldn’t be the one footing the tab.”

“That’s what you think.” Fahrad chuckled, lifting the bottle of rum off the floor beside him and taking a swig. “Sorry, kid. I love you, but I’m not gonna foot your gambling debt. Some lessons you gotta learn the hard way.”

“Hmph.” Wrathion whipped back around to glare at Anduin. “Fine, Stormsong it is, then.”

Anduin and Taelia shared a smile. Wrathion’s eyes narrowed, and he added, with a bite to his tone. “And you better not be conspiring.”

“Oh, yes, Wrathion,” Anduin teased. “Taelia made sure to load the dice before coming, just so I could win more apple rings.”

“An old Kul Tiran trick,” she giggled, pulling back her hand, readying to toss the handful of dice across the mat. “You caught me! House Wrynn always pays the dealer. You gotta keep them happy if you want a share of the winnings.”

From the gleam in her eye to the fact no one in House Wrynn had ever played this sailor’s game, Anduin knew she was making this adage up on the spot, but Wrathion, thoughts addled by rum and the not-too-gentle sway of the ship, regarded it with a smoky huff and a wrinkled nose. 

“Well, perhaps if you’d give House Prestor a chance, you would see just how generous we can be. Isn’t that right, father?”

“Hah, speak for yourself, son,” Fahrad replied behind him, setting the bottle down between his leather boots. “The first rule of Crown and Anchor is never to share your winnings. The second rule is always to keep an eye on the Kul Tirans. They’re known to bend the rules.”

“Well.” Taelia chuckled a hearty chuckle, tucking back the curled end of her dark brown bob. “Good thing I’m from Elwynn, then. Mainlander honesty, Kul Tiran smarts. You couldn’t ask for a dealer more trustworthy.”

Anduin’s smile widened, and he stared down at the felt mat with a light feeling bubbling in his chest. Taelia wound up her arm, and Wrathion leaned forward, his knees tucked under him and his bare feet with their long gold toenails splayed out at both sides of his hips. 

The dice rattled, then flew. Rolling across the mat, they landed with three identical squids facing up towards the glow of the oil lamp swaying overhead. 

Wrathion smacked the floorboards again; this time Anduin swore he felt a crack. Opening his mouth to warn him not to draw too much attention to their quarters, the king gave up when the dragon’s triumphant whoop came too soon to be contained. 

A far cry from his usual dignified murmurs and postures carefully held, Wrathion couldn’t contain his glee. Scooping up half of Anduin’s winnings—dried fruit the king wasn’t entirely sure the dragon even liked—he flashed Taelia a sharp-toothed smirk and handed two of them to her in lieu of the dice.

“Let this be proof of House Prestor’s generosity.” He bowed, before twirling one of the remaining rings around his finger. “A mark of our bond to House Fordragon, an alliance sure to last for ages to come.”

“You’re drunk, Wrathion,” Fahrad pointed out from the corner, rather unnecessarily. When Wrathion turned to glare at him, he lost his balance, spilling to the side and shuffling his legs in the other direction to break his fall. 

Laughing, and not too concerned about his lost winnings, Anduin reached across the mat and clamped a hand around Wrathion’s shoulder to steady him. When he looked past him towards Fahrad, he found the older dragon’s smile suspiciously absent, replaced by a gauntness and a deep, unreadable stare that sucked all the warmth from the room.

Anduin’s chest tightened. Just as they had done for that passing moment on deck, his pupils swelled, consuming the color in his eyes. He wanted to ask if everything was all right, but the thought of calling attention to the dark look shook the king to the pit of his stomach.

Thankfully, it was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by a more welcome seriousness and a light tip of his auburn head in Anduin’s direction. “We should be making port before noon tomorrow,” Fahrad said in a low voice. “What do we intend to do? Can you offer us any insight, Miss Fordragon?”

Taelia shot Wrathion a quick glance while he stared down at the mat. Shifting an inch or so in his direction, she looked over his head towards Fahrad, and explained with a new hush to her voice. “It’s...it’s complicated,” she began.

Anduin tightened his grip on Wrathion’s arm and watched the light fade from her sparkling emerald eyes. “Complicated how?” he tried through the lump that had swelled in his throat under Fahrad’s watch. 

She looked between them, before following Wrathion’s line of vision to the crown at the center of the mat. “After you left, or...um, were taken—” The ship swayed. Taelia stayed upright, but both Wrathion and Anduin tipped slightly to the side. “Things got worse, a lot worse. It’s like half the kingdom fell asleep, the guards around the Keep especially. I didn’t want father to keep going, but he insisted—”

“But he’s all right?” Anduin’s voice cracked. An image of Bolvar bound by a witch’s spell rose unbidden to his mind. Glowing yellow eyes hovering above him, pulling his strings like a puppet. Shivering, and needing something to stave off that nightmare, the king rose to his knees and crawled around the mat to sit beside Wrathion.

With his back to Fahrad, he reached across the young dragon’s lap and gently cupped his hand. The dried apple rings Wrathion had been holding slid out of his palm and into the gap between his crossed legs. He didn’t notice, curling his fingers and resting his shoulder lightly against the top of Anduin’s arm. 

“Father? He’s fine. Well, as fine as he can be.” Taelia twirled the curled end of her bob between her fingers as the two boys changed position. “Worried about you, of course. He wouldn’t stop worrying, but, ah, I know now you had your reasons.”

“I never meant to worry him, really. And neither did Wrathion. We didn’t want—”

“I know.” She reached over and gave their cupped hands a pat. “Trust me, I get it, and I think he will, too. Our best plan of action is to get to him as quietly as we can, get in touch with SI:7 and all them, let Shaw know what’s going on.”

“ _Everything_ that’s going on?” Fahrad asked from the corner. Not waiting for a reply, he picked up the bottle between his feet and took another long swig. The way he gulped reminded Anduin of the hasty shots Wrathion took after supper. He cursed himself for not noticing, not realizing what must have been burdening his mind. 

Releasing his hold on Wrathion’s hand, he draped his arm around him, instead, directing his reply to his lover rather than to his father watching from the sidelines. “No matter what happens, no harm will come to either of you. I will not have you judged for Onyxia’s crimes, dragons or not. I’m the king, after all. I get to pull my sway every once in a while.”

Anduin forced a smile that ached at the corners of his lips, but when Wrathion slumped into his chest, he was upright and determined enough to catch him. Burying his nose in Wrathion’s hair and tightening his embrace, he exhaled a shudder and squeezed closed his eyes. 

Taelia watched the two with furrowed brows. Behind them, Fahrad’s chair squeaked. “It looks like my son out-drank himself tonight,” he stated, louder but markedly calmer. “Let’s get him some water and put him to bed. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.”

“You’re right.” Anduin nodded, tightening his fingers around Wrathion’s shoulder and guiding him into an upright position. “Here, let me get it. I should have noticed how much he was drinking when we were sitting up at the window. It’s the least I can do, here—”

Anduin didn’t wait around to be stopped, even when Wrathion let out a groan of protest and Taelia held out her hand. Pressing himself up to standing, he crossed in front of Fahrad and opened the flimsy door that led to the water closet. Inside was a glorified chamber pot outfitted with a shelf-like seat and a rusty spout hanging over a basin. 

To its right sat the last of their cups, yellowed with overuse. After wiping it on the hem of his shirt, he stuck it under the spout and pressed down on the attached pump. The first sputter was cloudy and needed to be dumped, but after a few tries he got the water to run clear, topping off the glass and willing his breath to steady. 

To his right, Fahrad warned with a slur to his words, “‘ey, Wrathion, watch it. If you shift, it’s gonna get worse.”

The younger dragon mumbled something in response. Not waiting to make sense of it, Anduin crossed back into the chamber and quickened towards the two seated around the felt mat. In his absence, Wrathion had slumped forward against Taelia’s chest. She had her arms wrapped tightly around him, dwarfing his slender frame with her sturdier shoulders and unyielding grip. 

Anduin’s brows shot up and he nearly tripped in his hurry. The water sloshed over the rim of the glass, a few drops trickling down the back of his hand. Sinking to his knees, he held it out, and gasped out a quiet “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Taelia gave Wrathion’s back a meaningful pat. “For this? Your Majesty, if I may be so bold, you’ve never been to Boralus and, to tell you the truth, it shows.”

“What do you mean by that?” He let out a short laugh, but the creases between his brows started to soften. 

The warrior chuckled, passing Wrathion back into Anduin’s arms and wiping a bit of drool off her collar. “My best friend once barfed on my best pair of shoes. I think I can handle a sloppy dragon or two, if it comes to it.”

“I—I see.” The giggle that escaped him this time wasn’t forced. Rather than worrying about Taelia, he looked down at Wrathion, guiding the glass to his pursed lips and nudging at them insistently. “Okay, Wrathion, open up. You’re going to thank me in the morning.”

Blinking, looking up at Anduin with a bleary frown and slit pupils that had all but disappeared into the expanse of his crimson eyes, Wrathion nodded and accepted a sip. When he was finished, he mumbled something in the back of his throat, which Anduin recognized as draconic. Looking over his shoulder, he hoped to ask Fahrad for a translation, but found the older dragon staggering to the door and cupping his hand around the knob. 

Their gazes met, and Fahrad tilted his chin. “Think I need some fresh air,” he muttered, opening the door and crossing over the threshold. 

“Stay away from the railing!” Taelia chirped in farewell, only partially joking. She rose to stand over the boys with her hands on her hips and the light from the oil lamp casting her skin in a golden glow. “All right, set down the glass for a minute. Let’s get this one in the bunk.”

“Okay.” Anduin nodded, dropping his hand to Wrathion’s waist and leaning forward to nudge him. 

Taelia caught him under the arms and, in one seamless gesture, had him up on his feet. Following her lead, Anduin moved behind him and used his hips to keep him moving, shuffling with her to the bed and pointing him towards the mattress.

His hands smacked against it with a light thump, but they managed to break the rest of his fall. After guiding him under the threadbare blanket and crawling in beside him, Anduin worked his hands up under his shirt and undid the bindings he knew would cause him discomfort were they left on. 

Carefully easing him out of them and balling them up on the other side of his pillow, he guided him against his shoulder and ran his fingers through the sweat-soaked curls at the nape of his neck. Taelia returned a moment later, setting down the glass of water on the small table beside the bunk before ascending the ladder and settling on the mattress hung overhead. 

“Good night, Anduin, Wrathion,” she called into the still-lit room. 

“Good night, Taelia,” the king replied. “Sleep well.”

“Aye aye. And if he needs anything, any trips to the toilet or anything…”

“I’ll let you know,” Anduin answered, with a grateful flutter in his chest. 

“Tides bless you.”

“And Light bless you.”

Wrathion tried to join in, though the sounds he muttered were incomprehensible. They both chuckled, and then slowly lapsed into silence. Adjusting until he was as comfortable as he was going to get on a straw-stuffed mattress wrapped in stained gray linens, Anduin closed his eyes and inhaled the thick scent of rum issuing from Wrathion’s lips pressed against the shell of his ear. 

He stroked the other boy’s hair until his breathing settled and the glow of his eyes disappeared beneath his dark lashes. After that, he turned his mind to Taelia, who had had no trouble falling asleep in the scratchy, sagging bed.

Time passed, and finally the door to their room squeaked open. A pair of light footfalls crossed the room and stopped at the head of their bed. Even wrapped in Wrathion’s embrace with his rum-flushed skin pressed against him, Anduin shivered, his scalp prickling, and a breath catching in his throat.

‘It’s just Fahrad,’ he reminded himself, chiding himself for reacting like this. ‘What in Light’s name has gotten into you lately, Anduin Wrynn. Fahrad is your friend. He’s doing all this so you and Wrathion can be together.’

But then the dragon nudged his fingers between Anduin’s hand and Wrathion’s hair, and his blood ran cold. 

‘It’s just the night air,’ the king silently pleaded with himself, with Fahrad, with the Light and anyone else who would listen. ‘Please, let it be the night air.’

* * *

Wrathion squeezed closed his eyes, rubbing a nail between his thick brows and bowing over the porcelain basin. He couldn’t believe how far he’d let himself get, moments missing, cut from his memory by the shots he had tipped back in quick succession. Wondering what he had said and done proved a greater burden than the hazy memories that lingered. If not for the stabbing headache between his eyes, he might have gotten swept up in it all.

Instead, he bit his lower lip and grimaced. When he opened his eyes, the face staring back from the yellowed mirror was one of dark circles and rumpled curls. No matter how much water he tipped from his palm to his head, he couldn’t get out the kink above his right ear. Resigned to it, he selected a strip of sheer black cloth from his small bag and wrapped his hair up in it, tucking in the end above his forehead and fastening it with a pin.

He washed his face and rubbed his fake brown eyes with the back of his hand, leaving behind a streak of kohl he had to scrub off. As the ship swayed, the world around him spun. When he uprighted himself and gave his leather tunic a tug at the waist, the shadow returned to ebb at the corners of his thoughts.

A hiss at the back of his ear. A whisper down the nape of his neck. The momentary reprieve the drink had offered was gone; all he could do was draw back his shoulders until they ached and tug the door in with resolve. 

On the other side, Taelia leaned against an empty chair, holding out a glass with something yellow sunk to the center. When Wrathion stepped over the threshold, she nudged it out to him, her thin lips drawn and her green eyes soft as she looked down at him.

Another wince twisted his features. He staggered, and swallowed, and cursed the sympathy etched on her face, but when she held it out to him, he didn’t refuse. 

“Old sailor’s cure,” she explained with a bounce in her stance. 

“Ah...yes,” he tried in response, avoiding her gaze as he backed himself into the corner. 

“Just tip it back and swallow it whole. It’s a bit like slime going down, but the whiskey should warm you a touch, and the egg—”

He looked down into the amber liquid, giving it a swirl that sent the sphere at the bottom spinning around its edge. Like a globule from the lamp a goblin had once tried to sell him in Dalaran, it maintained its shape. He sighed, shutting his eyes and pressing the rim of the glass to his lips. 

With a jerk of his hand and a surprisingly easy swallow, it was gone. Taelia held her breath, but he polished off the drink and the egg yoke’s noticeable lump at its center with less fuss from his stomach than he had expected. His throat tingled, but when he opened his eyes, the graying around the edges of his vision had softened. 

Embarrassed and grateful in equal measure, he tucked the glass into the porthole sill, drawing the dirty blue shade across it. When he turned back to Taelia, her lips parted in a grin that lit her face from her cheeks to her dancing green eyes. 

No matter how ashamed he was, he couldn’t help but smile in response. Satisfied, she gave him a pat on the shoulder and circled around him to the bathroom door. 

“I’ll just need a minute to scrub off my teeth,” she explained with it still cracked open. “Tell Anduin and your father to meet me in the shadow of the mast. I’ve got just the place to meet father. I think we will all be fine.”

“Of course.” He tilted his chin in her direction, some of his usual flourish returning to his voice. “Take your time. If my father is to be believed, we will not be able to exit for another hour or so, at least. Not until the barrels in the hull are counted, and taxed—”

“That’s right,” she called through the crack in the door. A spray of water hit the bottom of the basin, its rush cut off by her hand shooting into it to catch it and bring it to her lips. She poured it in, swishing, gurgling, and spitting, before adding with a chuckle. “The nobles gotta get paid and all that. You know how it goes.”

Wrathion smirked, knowing _exactly_ how it always went. “Ah, yes, precisely that,” he agreed as he tucked away the last of his things and scooped up his leather satchel. “I’m sure we’ll be getting off in good time. Just as soon as they recall we exist.”

“Ha, that’s right.” The water pump stopped. “Guess it beats the alternative, though. Them recognizing the king and tripping all over themselves to greet him in style.”

“Indeed it does.” He kept laughing, but a pang needled at the pit of his stomach until it became too hard to ignore. When his thoughts turned to Anduin, he frowned, and the lilt in his voice evened to something lower, more serious. 

“And on that note, Miss Fordragon, I think I should leave you to your grooming and take my leave. If nothing else, I must spare our king from the tales my father tends to pull out when left to his own devices. I’m not sure Anduin wants to hear about the time he got a paladin’s sword for a single bottle of dyed green water, if you know what I mean.”

“I most certainly do! All right, then, Wrathion. You take care. I’ll be out of here in a minute.”

“Really, take your time.” Without waiting for her reply, he cracked open the cabin door and slipped out into the hallway. It was empty except for three women congregating under the open frame leading into the public restroom. Wrathion greeted them with a gentle bow, before passing and ascending the flight of creaky wooden stairs that led to the main deck. 

When he stepped out into the light, the ache between his eyes returned, though he managed to blink it back when he cupped his hand over his brow. What he couldn’t shake was the way his stomach churned at the stench of fish being dragged out under the late spring sun, nor the prickle that began anew between his shoulders and licked up his neck towards his turban.

His skin prickled, and his muscles pulled taut. He pursed his lips and held back a shudder, and stepped into the throng with his chin held high. Anduin and his father waited at the base of the mast, as they had promised, with a gap large enough to slip into left between them. 

When he approached, they both turned their gazes upon him. Anduin’s face lit up beneath the gray hood he had drawn over his brow, and Fahrad gave him a long, meaningful look that Wrathion met with a gentle nod. From the gauntness of the elder dragon’s face, he couldn’t help but feel he was suffering a similar fate. 

The firm hand Fahrad placed on the top of his arm confirmed his suspicions, the way it tightened and drew him into the shade between them. Anduin glanced down at it, then turned his attention back on Wrathion, blond brows knitting together and smile fading. 

“How are you doing?” He murmured.

“Quite fine, my dear. Don’t worry yourself,” Wrathion countered, sweeping his fingers between Anduin’s hood and his cheek. “And you?”

“It’s...strange coming back like this,” the king admitted after a pause. His eyes darted towards Fahrad, and he added, a notch or two louder, “But Taelia says she knows how to get us to...to where we’re looking to go. And that’s good, I think. If we start there, we can regroup, and—”

“I trust Miss Fordragon knows the way.” Wrathion focused on a loose strand of bang at the human’s temple, twisting it between his long nails. “She was quite helpful with my own...ah, _woes_ , this morning. She seems more than capable.”

“Indeed,” Fahrad replied. “Well, the sooner we get where we’re going, the better, I’d say. I can’t wait to put an end to this nonsense once and for all.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Wrathion flashed his father a grateful smile, which the rogue returned with a small nod. The chill crawling up his spine faded as the sun crept higher in the sky, casting its rays over the stone rampart surrounding the docks and onto the prince’s upturned face. The shadows dimmed, then wavered, and soon Taelia emerged through the crowd with her hammer slung over her shoulder. 

“Sounds like it’s almost time!” She announced with a cheery bounce in her step. 

“Great!” Anduin replied as he reached down and worked his fingers into Wrathion’s hand. With his hood pulled down and his body pressed into Wrathion’s side, he nudged him towards the sloppy queue forming around the gangplank. 

Wrathion’s father stepped in front of them, and Taelia flanked them, the gleam of her ornate weapon drawing any eye that wandered in the trio’s direction. After some shuffling, and a squeeze passed from Anduin’s hand to Wrathion’s, they disembarked, regrouping in the shade of a tree between the ramparts and the shipyard. 

Taelia lowered her hammer into her left hand and gestured towards an archway with her right. “You lot take a walk in the cemetery there, and I’ll head to Cathedral Square. It has to be nearly ten. Father will be heading out from terce, and I can just—”

“Hey, you, with the hammer,” a voice cut in from behind them.

With her hand still partially extended, Taelia turned, her bobbed hair swishing about her jaw. Summoning a brave smile and straightening her stance, she scooted between the guards and Anduin. Wrathion stepped forward to join her.

“Ah, yes?” She tried, her green eyes moving between their emotionless faces. “Oh, shoot, don’t tell me I left something behind on the boat. I could’ve sworn I checked and double checked my pockets. If it was my ticket, I meant to toss that away in the bin, before I—”

“That hammer was reported stolen two hours ago,” the older of the two cut her off, his salt-and-pepper mustache bristling as he wrinkled his nose. “Tell me, where did you come by it?”

Wrathion arched a brow. Behind him, he could feel Anduin and his father shift a few inches apart. With a wave of his hand that sent his gold bracelets jangling, he drew the guards’ attention, watching Taelia out of the corner of his eye as he explained, “Gentlemen, you do realize my friend and I were traveling on a ship until ten minutes or so ago. Unless dear Tae has secretly been training as a summoner, I think there’s very little for you to concern yourselves with.”

“Yeah,” Taelia joined him, gasping out the words. “And besides, this is my hammer. My father gave it to me.”

“That hammer is property of Lord Bolvar Fordragon.”

“Yes! Exactly! My father, Lord Bolvar Fordragon, Hand of the Ki—”

“—Not some ruffian deckhand and her street rat friends—”

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Wrathion took a step forward, blinking back the spots that ebbed at the corners of his vision when the sunlit sea reflected on his face. Yes, they had dressed inconspicuously, but they were hardly wearing _rags_ , and Taelia had dressed in her armor bearing the Kul Tiran crest. 

A sneaking suspicion that they were being harassed for more than the hammer began to nag at the young dragon’s thoughts. He sized up the dark haired guard, then his thinner, slighter companion, holding his gaze for as long as possible before angling slightly towards Taelia. 

“Now, gentleman, I am afraid I cannot stand for you insulting a noblewoman and her humble servants. I implore you to let us pass, if not for our sake, then for yours.”

“Why not just escort us to Lord Fordragon yourselves?” Fahrad offered. Wrathion pivoted on the curled tip of his boot, flashing a questioning look the older dragon ignored. “I mean, you said yourself he reported the hammer missing. Why not take us to him? Surely he’ll recognize his own daughter, yeah? No need to get in a brawl about it.”

The two guards exchanged glances. Shuffling back a pace, Wrathion stopped directly in front of Anduin. The king pulled on his hood and pressed a reassuring hand against the small of Wrathion’s back. 

Taelia, meanwhile, had tightened her grip on her hammer, making a show of slinging it back on her back. “Okay, then?” She prompted after the two men failed to answer. “Just take me to my father, and I’ll get this sorted. If my calculations are correct, he should be leaving the cathedral right about now. Let’s go to him, and see that this all is sorted and—”

“Lord Bolvar Fordragon is in the Keep at the moment,” the younger guard said after shaking off Wrathion’s stare. “I’d think any daughter of his would know as much, though I’d also think any daughter of his wouldn’t be stealing family heirlooms.”

“In the Keep?” She shifted her weight. Anduin’s hand tightened against Wrathion’s waist, and though Wrathion wanted to turn to him, to confer, he couldn’t risk drawing any further attention.

Shaking his head and prying loose the king’s fingers from his side, he gave them a squeeze. When he had lowered their arms together, Anduin leaned forward and whispered a single word against the shell of his ear.

“ _Tess?_ ”

 _Of course._ Coughing, Wrathion cleared his throat. He glanced first at his father, then reached forward and rested his free hand against the top of Taelia’s muscled shoulder. “Yes, actually, I think seeing your father in the Keep is an excellent idea, don’t you?” He murmured, slowly, adding weight to every sound. “In fact, I am sure he will be more than happy to receive us. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”

“Uh—” The younger one started, but the older one cut him off. 

“I doubt he cares what kind of ruffians we drag along with it, so long as we bring his _shining star_ back to him.”

Taelia’s bicep tightened under Wrathion’s hold. Her spine went rigid, and she hastily tucked back her hair with her free hand, averting her gaze as far over her shoulder towards Fahrad as she could comfortably manage. 

Anduin, in turn, emerged to stand at Wrathion’s side, regarding the guards with a cautious, but not fully concealed smile. “I agree,” he replied, before Wrathion could cut him off. “Please, take us to the Keep. Let us speak to Bolvar, and we will have this handled.”

“All right, then.” The younger guard looked past Anduin and shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if he has you thrown in the stocks for this, don’t blame us. We could have had you little ones out of here.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem, really,” Anduin answered, as much for Wrathion’s and Fahrad’s benefits as for the guards’. 

A shiver prickled at the back of Wrathion’s neck, and the shadows cast by the ramparts deepened with every step they took towards the cemetery, but Wrathion trained his eyes on the back of Taelia’s head and drew his shoulder blades tightly together. Whatever the two humans had picked up on, they were confident, relaxed, even. 

Wrathion longed for some of that assurance to come his way, but instead all that greeted him when they crossed into the city was an icy gust of wind against his clammy cheeks. A churning started in the pit of his stomach that could have been uncertainty or the many shots of rum he had downed the night before fighting to upend the piece of hardtack he had hastily consumed before departing the ship.

Gray shadows lingered at the foot of every tree, but none were deeper than the darkness cast by the cathedral spires jutting up to the sky on their right. They striped the grass and stretched like fingers towards the murky lake. The world was silent, too silent for a weekday midmorning, and beneath it all, a murmur quivered down into the earth itself.

Wrathion tightened his grip on Anduin’s hand. The king responded with a gentle squeeze. Fahrad watched them, bringing up the rear with his hand resting on the knife Wrathion knew to be concealed in a holster under his tunic. 

The buildings lining the dwarven district stared down at them through lightless windows. An eerie, dreamlike stillness hung over the Keep, broken only by the two guards trading inaudible murmurs with another soldier stationed at the base of the steps, who then took a rigid step back and allowed them to pass. They headed up to the main landing and crossed through the open doors. 

The Keep was dark except for the flickering light of torches surrounding an empty throne. Before it stood a slender, pale figure with long black hair, flanked by two lords Wrathion recalled from the ball.

Lescover was one, and the other, he decided, was Vanyst. They both eyed him with beady, dark eyes, while Katrana stepped forward and extended her hands to Anduin.

“Where’s...my father?” Taelia looked behind her. Fahrad yanked out his dagger, but no sooner had the blade caught the flicker of torchlight than the guards turned on him and pointed their swords in the group’s direction.

Wrathion froze. Anduin’s blunt nails dug into the back of his hand, and he swallowed, audibly. 

Taelia tried again, an octave higher, “All right. I hear my father wanted to check on the hammer, so here it is. If you’ll excuse me, please, I’d just like to get this settled before my servants and I—”

Katrana chuckled: a musical, but joyless sound that echoed off the domed ceiling. “Your servants? My dear, I believe you are mistaken. I would know my wretched nephew’s face anywhere, and our poor, sweet king, kidnapped and subjected to all kinds of terrible—”

“Lady Katrana, please,” Anduin interrupted. His quivering voice paled under hers, but when he stepped forward and lowered his hood he drew the eye of every guard and noble in the room. His blond hair carried a light of its own, shimmering as he swept it over his shoulder. “Please...allow us to speak with you alone, unless you’d rather I tell the court what I’ve learned while I was away.”

“I would never hide anything from my most loyal constituents, my dear,” she drawled, resting a hand on Lescovar’s shoulder. “Anything you have to say about my nephew you can say to them. My loyalty is to you alone, your Majesty, not to him.”

The lord stirred at Katrana’s touch, but when he looked to Anduin, it was as if he were seeing past him. His gaze landed, instead, on Wrathion, who grimaced and grit his teeth behind pursed lips. The whole chamber held its breath, and in every alcove, they were studying him.

From the way he tensed to the uneasy quiver at his fingertips as he readjusted his turban. A chill. A prickle scattering across his scalp. A shadow.

Anduin had promised this wouldn’t be pinned on him; he had come knowing that, were he to fall prey to the nobles’ assaults, at least Katrana would fall beside him. Yet suddenly, it was difficult to remember the king’s kiss or the squeeze of his hand. His warmth felt unreachable where he stood in the center of the dais, and though Wrathion wanted nothing more than to break out and run to him, his heels remained bolted to the floor.

The darkness wavered, and materialized. Ledges holding portraits and golden sconces morphed into lidded eyes that opened and poured orange light upon the room. 

Wrathion’s heart stopped. His hand flew out in front of him, and a voice growled, low against the shell of his ear, “He will always abandon you.”

“No!” Wrathion snapped, whirling around. His high voice cut through the heavy air, and the guards tipped their blades in his direction. With his thoughts whirling, it was difficult for him to mind their points. Furrowing his brow, he turned in a circle, the red glow of his eyes returning as he squinted and stared at the edges. 

“I have no intention of listening to you. I know Anduin for who he is.”

“Wrathion?” Taelia blinked, releasing her hand from her hammer, approaching him with a careful step. “Wrathion, what’s going on?”

The dragon pushed past her, taking the first stair up the dais and looking back down the hall they had entered. A sliver of sunlight leaked in under the heavy wooden doors, but it wasn’t enough to pierce the darkness. “Excuse me, if you’ll please give me your attention, my lords,” he sang, frantically. “There is something I need you to know about my dearest auntie, and I.”

“Wrathion, what are you doing?” Anduin muttered behind him. He could feel Katrana’s eyes widen, then narrow to yellow slits. 

“Yes, _Wrathion._ What in Light’s name are you doing?” She murmured, extending a slender hand to rest against the back of his neck. He quelled from it, ducking away. 

“Always the drama queen, aren’t you, Rhalina?”

“Tell these people what you did to Anduin’s father, Onyxia. Tell them what became of their queen that day at the riots.”

A shrill laugh cut through the room, and the shadows shifted. The eyes blinked, and when the dragon’s gaze fell upon Taelia’s blank expression, it dawned on him she couldn’t see it. 

None of them could see it: not Anduin, not the lords. The only other person in the room whirling and sputtering and balking away from the darkness was his father, Fahrad, arm shaking violently where it held his dagger and back knocking against a soldier’s blade with no acknowledgement. 

His green eyes were trained upon Anduin’s face, his thick red brows knit together, and his lips flying open to shout, “I’ll never let you take him from me!”

The floor shook. The torches rattled. His father roared, louder, and as deep as thunder. “You tricked him. You tricked us.”

“ _No!_ ” 

The darkness broke, yielding to a gray stone room cracking around the belly of the black dragon darkening its hall. One of the guards gasped and tumbled backwards, his armor clanging and his sword skidding across the floor. The other crouched, sticking out his blade, poised to launch an attack until Katrana lifted her slender hand to the sky and stopped him.

“Fahrad, dear. How unbecoming. And here I thought you would be the one sensible enough to hide.”

“—My son.”

“Not your son,” she corrected with a simper. Shuffling her flowing red skirt to the side, she stepped behind Anduin, clenching her talon-like nails around his shoulders. Anduin lifted his head to look up at her, but his movements were sluggish, as if he were fighting against a current. 

She giggled. Wrathion held his breath, and she continued, unrelenting, “You never had a son, Fahrad, nor a daughter. Little Wrathion here is an experiment, and, I’m afraid to say, a failed one. He was created to do a single job, but as he has failed rather spectacularly, I think it’s time to be done with him. Don’t you? Don’t you, Anduin? Wouldn’t you rather have a real, living person as your queen?”

“I—”

Anduin didn’t get the chance to respond, nor did Wrathion get the chance to feel the weight and the _shame_ of her words ringing in his ears. As he opened his mouth, the dragon before him roared, his sharp teeth flashing and his tongue pressing down to reveal a glimmer of yellow sparking within.

Taelia’s hammer hit the floor. Wrathion threw up his hands, then kicked at the tiles that lay between him and his father. A shock passed through them, down into the earth, and up into dirty spikes that formed a wall between dragon and king. It wasn’t enough. As broken ceramic and dust kicked up into the air, Wrathion charged, hands extended, a wordless cry on his lips.

A burst of flame engulfed him. His clothes burned into shreds that crumbled and fell from his shoulders. The wrap that had held his hair in place unwound and shriveled to ash upon his cheeks. Coughing and gasping through the smoke, he hurried forward. The soldiers rushed them in a din of plate and iron and flesh. 

“Father.”

A shriek rose high above the clatter. A wall smashed, and the dust and smoke and tile fragments left behind tumbled between Wrathion’s legs with the beat of a dragon’s wings. Whipping around, he watched in horror as Onyxia caught Anduin in her talons and burst through the wall, the sunlight that poured in behind them a mockery of the light she had stolen from the chamber. 

As if in slow motion, they rose together into the sky, Onyxia flapping her wings, Anduin thrashing in her grip. Taelia rushed to the crumbling wall, and Wrathion sprang behind her, his hair clinging to his sweat-soaked skin and the sun harsh upon his red eyes.

His bare feet stumbled over a broken tile, and landed in something hot and wet. He stopped. A black stream gushed onto the floor from the scaled neck of the black dragon in the hall, forming rivulets that cut through the tiles and left smoke curling in their wake.

A lifeless head slumped onto the spikes Wrathion himself had summoned, a final gasp kicking up ash and dirt. Everything stopped, and a scream clawed up Wrathion’s throat to escape with a burst of flame. 

“No!” He flung himself forward. His arms wrapped around the dragon’s maw, and he buried his face in his scales. Their once-soothing touch stung like ice, and he cried, shoulders racking, lungs refusing to let in the air. “Father. No, please...no, father.”

A pair of gruff hands landed on the scruff of his neck, yanking him back. Taelia screamed. The world around him spun. 

His bare heels knocked against broken tiles as he was dragged into an alcove, but he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything, until he was flung into a passage and forced up against a wall. 

“What are you?” A man with a neat mustache gave him a shake. Pale skin and red hair melted together through Wrathion’s tears. 

“What are you?” The man persisted. Somewhere on the other side of the wall, Taelia was pounding, screaming his name, cracking a pillar with her hammer, but his tongue refused to move. 

Another sob shook him from his shoulders to his feet, and the man lifted him up, staring into his eyes, and persisting, “Where have they taken Anduin? What has she done with the king?” 

Black blood dripped from Wrathion’s fingers as they hung uselessly by his sides. Shaking and gasping and squeezing closed his eyes, he looked away, wincing, reeling, begging his mind to wake from this dream.

His father, dead. Anduin, taken. Taelia, pounding at the door, and this man, this man—

A pair of arms wrapped tightly around him, drawing him into a firm embrace. “It’s okay,” the man muttered, guiding his face against his shoulder and patting him, careful but not detached. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. Wrathion knew it wasn’t okay, but all he could do was gasp, and fight to suck down a breath, and cling to this stranger like he was the only one left for him in the world. 

“I’m taking you to SI:7,” the man whispered. Wrathion couldn’t make sense of the word.

“We will regroup and get to the bottom of this. Come on. One foot in front of the other. Focus. I’ve got you. Just breathe. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”


End file.
